The Third Time
by mmDerdekea
Summary: This story takes place right after the Season Five finale. If you wish to read a story containing love, sex, frustration, fighting, hope, change, growth, torment, action, danger, attacking dogs, and a frigid Atlantic Ocean, this is the one for you.
1. Chapter 1

The Third Time

By mmDerdekea

Chapter One

It had been a long night coming and even so, after the frenetic escapade at The Castle, winding up with Mrs. Tishell's taking a trip to hospital in Truro, Doc Martin and Louisa Glasson still had to get home, care for James, make dinner and allow the tension to slip away like the bright harrowing day did as the sun set over the ocean. There was cleaning up the dishes and Martin calling two patients who had left messages, and the long calming of a crying baby.

Finally, there was silence, various toiletries and getting ready for bed.

"Don't put on your pajamas," Louisa said, already in a thin, black nightie, as Martin bent over an opened drawer of his dresser. She was sitting in their bed, her lush dark brown hair falling around her neck and down passed her shoulders.

"Why not?" Martin asked.

"Say it again."

"Say what?

"You know. For the fourth time."

Martin stood up. "Again?"

"Again."

"I don't understand—"

"Just say it, once more."

He stared at her a moment, and then obeyed. "I love you."

At those words, Louisa took off her nightie, allowing her naked upper body to gleam in the rays of the early moonlight. Her eyes looked down, and for a moment her insecurity and awkwardness overtook her, and her hand tightened on the nightie. She dared to glance up, and was rewarded. Martin stood staring at her, the dresser forgotten, his eyes grey and soft, like the early magic of twilight.

"I'm so happy hearing you say that. Now, tonight, I was thinking we should…you know…it's been too long…." she whispered, hating herself for struggling with the words, as her heart beat hard both in trepidation and anticipation. Martin held the cards—he could so easily ruin it by a word, a phrase, or he could make it wonderful.

"Are you ready?" he asked.

"I'm sitting here naked, so I think—"  
"No, I mean….are you….no longer sore?"

Oh. "No, I'm not sore."

He came to the bed, undressing in a smooth yet urgent manner; off came his tie, his jacket, his shirt, his socks, shoes, and trousers. She named each item in her head as they fell, unusually for the tidy Martin, to the floor. Only his boxers remained and only her underwear. He slid under the covers and for the first time in months, did not impress in the covers a dented line between them.

There was only the slightest pause, a moment of nervous hesitation. She prayed he would not speak, not ruin anything, and just caress her, just do what he knew so well to do. Her memories of his cunning fingers made her shiver with need.

"Louisa…" was all he said, so softly she barely heard it, but it set her skin tingling. Being so near Martin her blood blazed a fire coursing through her womb, and she felt that urge to merge into him, to lose herself in him.

"I love you," Louisa blurted out, terrified of those words, the pain and rejection associated with them in her past, risking it all to say them.

It had been a long time since she had said those three words, and the cursed spell seemed miraculously broken.

Whether it was telepathy, or simply the mutual desire to be silent, he blessedly received the words by closing his eyes, and when they opened, they seemed a touch moister. She leaned her head towards him, his hand caressed her face, and she brought her lips to his. There was an ardent flurry of touching and kissing, a rediscovery of bodies aching to be found, explored, and conquered. In their eventual joining, tangible pleasure emanated from them as a primitive force, and glorious cries filled the room. Their arms were entwined around each other's bodies and held fast and tight, parent to parent, partner to partner, and, once again, finally, lover to lover.

When they were resting in bed, slightly sweaty and immensely contented, Louisa lowered her head onto Martin's chest, as he rubbed her back, and she listened to the lub-dub of his heart drumming his personality in the beat: steady, stolid, routine. It was all good right then, very good, a good day, a good outcome, good words, and, she smiled adding, good sex. If it was always like this…

Martin spoke, "We shouldn't need birth control while you're still breast feeding. The Lactational Amenorrhea Method can last up to six months after birth."

Louisa inhaled an extra gallon of air and let it all out in a slow and saddened sigh. She pulled away from him and turned on her side, facing the bedroom wall.

"Did you mean what you said?" she asked a few minutes later.

"Yes, you shouldn't menstruate for another four months."

"No, no, not that. That you would stay here, for me, if I wanted to stay here, to be with me."

"I've signed a contract."

"I know. But, did you mean what you said?"

She wished to feel his hand touch her back, and there it was, resting against her spine. She leaned back into it.

"Yes," he said. "I'll stay here to be with you."

"But, you really want to leave. To be a surgeon again in London."

"Yes." His hand moved to her hip. "And you resigned."

"I know…" she said, turning to kiss his forehead goodnight. "I know."

"If you persist in working in London, at least the students there likely won't lick the floor in dares."

Louisa clenched her lips together. She was so irritated with Martin insulting her students, again, and questioning her need to work, she couldn't even focus on what to say, or where to begin. Anger boiled up in her and she felt as if her fury inarticulately erupted, it would give voice to a scream they'd hear in Bude.

"And, if you want, we can get married. If you want," Martin added.

Her mouth dropped open. She turned her whole body around, so that it was fully facing him, knowing he didn't know how to joke, but wondering if he had suddenly learned. The vexation was held at bay, but not entirely dissipated. For a moment, facing him, she wished she wasn't naked. "Are you asking me to marry you?"

"I still can't bear to be without you," he said it softly, like a moth floating in the evening air. She remembered that line, what he had said nearly a tumultuous year ago, and what she had so fervidly responded to.

"We made love the first time that night," she recalled.

"Yes." He waited, his eyes so glistening soft it almost seemed like they would melt into a pool of salt water.

"I'll marry you, Martin, yes. But, after things are settled down." Painful memories flooded her brain. "Not in three weeks."

"Yes. Good."

The two omnipotent words he used to express nearly everything positive.

"Yes, good," she agreed.

An unbelievable day—had every emotion been felt since morning? Longing, frustration, fear, panic, anxiety, anger, concern, confusion, realization, love, connection, lust; it was exhausting to think about. And, now, ending with commitment-a second chance, a hope that this time they could get it right.

They kissed and allowed their fatigue to overpower them; resting arm to arm, they slipped away into a long needed sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

James Henry, in a crib in their bedroom, woke up at 3:00 am, crying as if he hadn't been fed in days. Martin and Louisa were torn from sleep.

Martin mumbled, "Check to see if he has a fever," an endless occupation he had whenever their child was upset. Then he sank back down to sleep as Louisa got up, covered herself with her robe, and realized logically it was the mother's job, not the father's, to nurse a baby.

She was up one to three times a night feeding and cuddling James Henry, still, so this way already established nighttime activity for Louisa.

She took him out of the bedroom into the spare one, and sat down on the bed, nursing him. Given the body type of his father, James was a small baby, quite adorable, with lively eyes, and with thin strands of his father's blond hair. He was crying too hard to latch, but with some cuddling and cooing, he settled down and drank a fair bit. He cried again afterwards for a while, but a good shoulder burping and some dancing movements in the air Louisa had invented, which sometimes worked and sometimes didn't, settled James Henry down. She put him back in the crib and soon sank into sleep. That had only taken thirty minutes, which for Louisa was a short and sweet blessing.

Being up, she went to urinate, and then returning to bed, Louisa sat in her nightie, watching Martin sleep. He was the most immovable sleeper she had ever seen. He went to sleep on his back and seemed almost paralyzed. He didn't move, never tossed and turned, and generally woke exactly in the same supine position. Now and then, he'd turn onto his right side and then stay there. She could be quite restless in bed, side to side, legs moving, and at times, apparently, even snoring. Their bedtime habits were another complete difference between them.

She considered waking him up to make love to him again. She was youngish, she was attracted to him, they enjoyed each other in bed, and she could feel her hidden and suppressed libido coming back to life. She could slide up over his belly, and wake him up with kisses.

The problem was, well…Martin's reaction. She wasn't sure, really, of his libido—it seemed either lower than hers or something he had learned to perfectly control. During these last weeks, since the birth of James they had slept in the same bed and while she would lie there some night holding in yearnings of sexual need, he seemed completely unbothered by their lack of physicality. Yes, she had been sore, but only for the first couple of weeks. Even in the last month, with all their problems, she had still felt the heat inside when she was around him, even when discussing checks he was leaving for James' care.

She knew he loved her, but still he was Martin, and Martin was not the most predictable of men. If he rejected her advances now, with some clinical or hurtful phrase, it would devastate her. Walking on eggshells was hard enough without the cracked ones slicing one's feet open.

It was the middle of the night, and her fatigue released her mind to wander into enemy territory. She believed Martin had not been promiscuous in his life, and his, as far as Louisa knew, greatest love was to that anorexic, nasty, cold tart, Edith Montgomery. Although Louisa had not wanted to give birth on a sofa in a pub, it was much better than having the first hands that touched her baby been Dr. Despicable's. For that alone, the shock of Tommy's taxi crashing, and the blow against her tummy, resulting in her precipitous birth, had all been fortuitous.

Still in enemy territory, Louisa's thoughts slid down a dark alley. Martin was surprisingly and enjoyably apt in bed, as, she realized he was in so many areas of his life. He excelled as a surgeon, as a physician, as a clock fixer, as a cook, and he was very attentive and capable with physical intimacy. He could have had a natural talent, or studied methodologies in pleasing women, but the worst-case scenario haunting Louisa was that he had learned his techniques from his time with Edith Montgomery. She resented nearly everything about Edith—her capacity to relate to Martin equally in medicine; her cold, clinical mindset; her sense of innate superiority; and the sense to Louisa that Edith was in some way a competitor with her regarding Martin.

The only consolation Louisa found if Edith had helped Martin learn bedroom skills, as a couple of men had helped her early on, was that Louisa was the one benefitting from it and from Martin's declared love, and his marriage proposal. Edith Montgomery had plainly lost. Especially since her relationship with Martin had been so rocky for years, she felt a snide satisfaction in winning.

Perhaps now things would get better.

She loved Martin; she always had. Did they really have a chance together?

She wanted to be with him, if it was good, and she wanted them to be intimate in all ways.

Nonetheless, even engaged to him, she still didn't have the courage to wake Martin up.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

She woke on her right side, and after a small stretch found her torso suddenly enclosed by Martin's arms wrapping around her. She honestly could not think of any better way to wake up, and a broad smile beautified her face. How long had he been up, probably watching her, waiting for her consciousness? Martin sidled up close to her, and she felt his hardness against her buttock.

"Do you need to urinate?" he whispered into her ear.

She supposed that someone on the planet had thought up a less romantic wake up statement than Martin's, but she couldn't begin to imagine it. "Good morning to you, as well. Uh, no, I did that in the middle of the night," she said.

"Do you mind?"

"No, I don't mind."

She couldn't see or hold him and at first that was awkward. But, his hands, and lips and kisses, and his removal of her underwear brought her to such a keen sense of lust and excitement, her insecurity, always present, always ruling her life, was momentarily pushed to the side. Her body responded avidly, and when Martin's touch confirmed her lubrication, he entered her from behind. His fingers nurtured her clitoris and caressed her breasts, his kisses roused the enlivened nerves of her neck, and his thrusting was heavenly. Soon she was shaking hard in his arms, grabbing his side, his forearm, and not long after that, he was convulsing his release against her back, the tightness of his arms around her seemed like impermeable armor against the judgmental world.

She had never made love that way. And she was delighted they had started the day so intimately.

He untangled himself from her and lay on his back and she turned 180 degrees around, staring at Martin, resting her head on her hand.

"They teach you that in medical school?"

"No. It's illegal and unethical to have sex with patients."

So much for another playful joke! "Still, it was nice."

He looked at her, and unless it was her imagination, a certain small smile tried to betray his stoic face. "Good."

"Were you awake before me for long?"

"Not for long."

"Were you watching me?"

"Yes. With your history of snoring I made sure you were breathing consistently and didn't have sleep apnea."

"Oh." Sleep apnea. There's nothing more romantic than sleep apnea.

"You should urinate now, if you can," Martin added. "For women, urinating after sex significantly decreases their risk of developing a urinary tract infection."

And…so much for after sex snuggling.

James Henry woke with a brief cry, and then launched into a cacophony of gurgling noises. "I'll change his nappy," Martin said. "I've brought a box of surgical gloves upstairs."

Thus began another day in the Ellingham/Glasson home.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

They didn't discuss The Decisions To Be Made, the christening, whether they might marry, their soon separation, as the day progressed, but they hung over the air like mist, light enough to walk through but something one felt against one's skin. After Martin changed James' nappy, Louisa breastfed and dressed him while Martin showered and put on his suit. Their light-haired son spent his first hour awake cooing and smiling, and for a couple of seconds they stood together at the crib, staring down at him. A snappily suited Martin went down earlier than Louisa, and carried his son on his hip, putting him in the buggy in the kitchen. Martin heated water for tea and began the process of cooking two boiled eggs, and four pieces of slim, whole wheat toast.

It was Tuesday, and it would have been nice if it was Sunday, a day of rest for them to quietly continue to develop their relationship, but it was instead a working day and they were both going to be busy.

He set the table for both of them and, being apt in the kitchen, his timing was good, and he was pouring out the tea into teacups just as Louisa entered the kitchen.

"What's that?" she asked.

"Soft-boiled egg and toast for breakfast."

"I thought I'd have a bowl of cereal." She took out a box from the closet pantry, and the milk from the refrigerator.

"Those are sweetened with a great deal of sugar."

"Are they?"

"Yes. You'll have an energy drop mid-morning, and need to snack. Plus, refined sugar raises lipids, blood glucose—".

"Still. I'd like to eat it."

Martin mumbled, "It's poor nutritional role modeling for James."

"When he becomes aware of sentient fire engines, that's when I'll probably have to start worrying about nutritional role modeling."

Martin did that silent stare, which always had, and still did, unnerve her. What was worse is that everything Martin said about diet and food was right, and she knew it. She just didn't know why his words, even when right, seemed like a cyanide laced dart shot into her chest.

They ate in silence for a minute or two and then Martin asked, "Who's going to watch James today? I have a full patient schedule."

"I don't know. We'll have to find someone in the village."

"When you arrive in London, since you seem set on working, I've arranged an agency to find applicants to watch him. There is an extensive interview process."

"Have we decided then, we're moving to London?"

Martin froze, fork in mid-air. "You resigned, and I have a contract."

_But what you said at the Castle_…."Yes, yes, I know. What were you saying?"

He began again, slowly, watching her intently, as if she was at risk of having a seizure.

"I stated you wish to work in London."

"Right, I plan on working. You've contacted a childcare agency?" she asked.

"ACA Childcare. Highly recommended."

"I'm surprised you know about childcare services."

"I do have a child."

"We have a child, yes."

"Yes."

"I'll want to be involved in the interviews, of course."

"Of course."

There was that pause in their conversation that wasn't the natural pause that occurred in stimulating conversation when the brain came up for air and took a breath before diving into the discussion again; that wasn't the Martin-Louisa pause. This was the pause they had mastered, the stop sign indicating the conversation was not progressing well, was confusing or awkward for one or both, or, was heading for a cliff and danger signs were up all around them.

This pause enabled Louisa to sink into problematic ruminations.

His speech at the Castle, if only he could talk like that, like a normal person all the time. His love for her and his commitment to stay in Port Wenn, a village he loathed, filled with people he loathed, just for her, to be with her, was a confusing mishmash to Louisa. Although Louisa had agreed to go to London, to be with Martin, the father of her child, and the man she loved, but who could so easily drive her crazy, and yet also make her feel so good in bed, she was of two minds about it. The fact was simply she did not want to go.

Louisa wanted to stay in Port Wenn. She loved the village, and the people. The place where each street was comfortable to her, each person was someone she knew, each view was gorgeous, each day was far from the news of the world, the craziness of the world, the violence of the world. In her bones, Louisa was bred to live in a small town. She had gone to University in London, and had lived a slightly raucous life then, but she had been young, and youth welcomes what older people avoid. She did not want the cars and the crowds and noise, and she did not want nature to be exemplified by the Thames, Hyde Park, Regent Park, St. James Park, and all the other parks surrounded by high rises and clamor. She did not want the frantic pace of life, the brilliant white painted apartment Martin had chosen for them.

She would miss the sea, the moors, the friendliness, and the slow pace. She loved being head mistress and doubted she would find such a fulfilling job in London; she had more confidence in herself in Port Wenn than she would have in London. The thought of moving there made her slightly nauseous and nearly brought her to tears.

Martin had stated a promise to stay, for her. But, she had offered her resignation, and he had signed a contract, and all he could medically do in Port Wenn was be a GP. In London, he would return to Surgery, to running a Vascular Department in a major hospital, which she knew, was his dream. In all of medicine, he loved surgery best, and Louisa knew he excelled at it. His overcoming his blood phobia had impressed her a great deal, and could she be so selfish to prevent him from returning to that career, those accolades, and his helping so many patients? They'd have a nice life, comfortable, monied. It might work out if they could get along, alone, with no support from friends or family.

She did not want to leave Port Wenn, her home, and the place she knew best in the world. She knew in her heart, without a doubt, she didn't want to go, but she also wanted to be with Martin. She had turned in her resignation and she wondered if she could take it back, say she had made a mistake, and, she thought she could.

Martin was supposedly going to London in two weeks, and she'd follow about six weeks later, in the half-term break of Oct 29-Nov 2nd. He was so excited to leave.

But, now she could undo all that based on his words, spoken from the heart, in a time of crisis. He'd allow his dreams of a career to be crushed by her, for her, and he'd stay in Port Wenn.

How selfish could Louisa be? How selfish was it of Martin to drag her so far from her home?

She looked up at Martin and realized he had been watching her, like a mouse in a research cage. She sat there, head resting in one hand, cup of cooling tea in the other, soggy cereal in the bowl before her.

"Do you have a headache?" Martin asked.

"No, no, I'm fine."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, Martin."

"Perhaps we should expand our search for a nanny to Bude or Delabole."

"I can't drive James to either and pick him up everyday."

"The nanny could drive here."

"That would be expensive."

Martin tilted his head slightly and gave her a questioning look. "Money isn't the point."

Louisa didn't know the specifics of his finances, and never cared to, but it was fairly obvious that Martin's finances were very well in order. It irked her, though, having to rely on his money, realizing her income was nowhere equal and her bank account no doubt laughably inferior.

"You'll be a single mom after I go before half term."

"I'll do fine. You'll come down on the weekends."

"Yes, but during the week, you'll need a nanny."

"I'll call around for nannies on my lunch break." She finished off her cereal. "Do you think Aunt Ruth could watch James?"

Martin's eyes widened, as he swallowed a piece of toast. "Um…she has little experience with children."

"Neither did you and you've done fine."

They shared a look, their eyes welcome and soft, and then reflexively simultaneously glanced at James gurgling in his buggy, his little limbs dancing around.

"I doubt she'll want to."

"Joan would have helped." It was not said as a judgment against Ruth, but more wistfully, a grieving of Joan's absence.

"She had her Bed and Breakfast."

Martin cleared the table of their dishes and cups.

"What about Mrs. Cooper?" Louisa asked.

"No, I saw her daughter Tabatha last week with strep throat."

They exchanged a few more names, with Martin criticizing most based on perceived low intelligence, ill family members, lack of cleanliness of home (if he had visited them), and whatever else he could negatively assess.

"Everyone in Port Wenn is not incompetent, stupid, sick or sloppy."

"Most everyone—"

Louisa's fiery glare was suddenly cut short and she interrupted him.

"What about the Fenns?" Louisa asked, standing up and walking to the kitchen door, seeing Roger and Maureen through the glass. "Hello! Come in."

Martin ducked his head in his quiet "Hello", as he continued washing the dishes.

"Good morning!" Roger Fenn blared. "I hope it's not too early, but we thought we'd stop by. Thought we'd walk up the cliffs if the weather holds a little more. "

They had their twin girls in a double buggy, one wearing a red hat, one wearing a green.

"Oh, they're so cute, and growing so fast," Louisa said, bending over to grab a hand of each child. "Hello, Katy, Hello, Laura."

The Fenns had naturally scooted over to James and were baby talking to him, delighted in James getting playfully excited, his limbs jerking back and forth.

"He's got your blue grey eyes, Martin," Roger announced in his gravely voice. "And your blond hair." He took out a teething ring from his pocket. "Here you go," he said, putting it in the crib. "You'll need this in a few months."

"We came over to invite you for a play date," Maureen said.

"What?" Martin asked.

"Come on over on Sunday to our house, and we'll let the kids play, while we sit around chatting."

"No," Martin said, his face distorted as if he was chewing on spoiled fish.

"We'd love to come," Louisa said. "What time?"

"One year old toddlers can hardly engage with a two month old infant," Martin explained.

"We'll give them sharp sticks and a pot of boiling water for tea and they'll be fine," Roger said.

"What?"

"Joke, Martin. Still no good at those, are you?" The Fenns, equally smiling, turned to Louisa and accepted her answer. "Anytime after noon."

"I may be busy," Martin said, "with patients."

Roger approached a wary, frowning Martin, and slapped him lightly on the arm. "Don't worry, Martin. Socializing won't rub off on you. You'll wind up the same buoyant extrovert after your visit."

"I'm not an extrovert."

"Right, right."

Louisa then pulled the Fenns aside, and asked them about watching James for the day, while they found a full-time nanny. She had bottles of breast milk in the fridge, plenty of diapers and she'd be eternally grateful. They agreed immediately.

"We're thinking of having five more kids, ourselves," Roger said. "It's wonderful having children."

"Oh, no we're not, having five more kids, but we're happy to care for James today."

"Don't worry, we have no intention of going to the Castle, and, anyway, Maureen puts up pictures of Brad Pitt on her dresser door."

Everyone laughed but Martin, who eyed them as if they were speaking a foreign language he couldn't fathom at all. Also, he hated that the gossip of the town already had spread the intricacies of their affair with Mrs. Tishell.

Nonetheless, James was dressed in good outerwear, and all his supplies, breast milk in bottles, diapers, were handed to the Fenns, and he was off with them for the day, Louisa would pick him up after school and take him home.

The house was silent afterwards, and felt nearly unbearably empty.

"Can I use your car to drive out to the Fenns?"

"If I'm not on a house call, yes."

"What if he cries and wants to be held?" Louisa said. Her child was once again, so soon, with another set of people. Mrs. Tishell had seemed so respectable; so did the Fenns. A sort of panic unfurled and opened up inside her, wrapping around her and seeming to smother her.

"Oh, god, right after Mrs. Tishell. I made a mistake." She took a step forward, "I need to get him back."

"It's fine. The Fenns can soothe a child." He came to stand behind her, and put his hand on her shoulder, and his closeness, his masculinity, his solid size, his touch, that chemistry, those pheromones, settled her down, made her feel protected, safe, aroused. "They aren't Mrs. Tishell."

"True. They're good people. Nice to have as friends," she said, more to convince herself than anything else.

"Yes. Um, about the 'play date…'"

"Martin, the Inquisition did not use "play dates" to torture people. You'll enjoy it."

"I don't think so."

"We can't live in a cave in a village, in London, surrounded by people we never interact with. At least I can't. You've got to find a way to be with people, sometimes. Especially people you like. There must be some people in Port Wenn you like and can bear to spend an hour or two with. I know you said you hate Port Wenn, but we're not all complete and utter losers. In four years you've never even given us a chance."

He didn't answer, and the conversation died. What was the point if he was leaving in two weeks? Soon after Louisa was lightly kissing his cheek and heading to school, Morwenna Newcross had arrived and began organizing patient care, and Martin headed to his surgery. The magic of Louisa's kiss ebbed too quickly from his face. It was a brief walk from the kitchen to his desk, but with each step he felt the absence of James and Louisa heavily in his soul. The house was too quiet, too lonely, without the presence of them both, and even the frenetic morning, filled with endless, and at times, annoying patients, didn't assuage the vacancy in his heart.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Louisa picked up James at the Fenns and arrived home to find Martin confronting a patient in the waiting room. He was putting some paper chart notes away with a couple of patients still waiting to see him when the young woman, in her late teens, came in holding her right ear.

"Doc, my ear, it really hurts worse."

He turned and asked, "Did you insert the ear drops into your ear three times a day?"

"Well, twice usually."

"Did you avoid swimming?"

"No. I've been swimming everyday."

"Even though I clearly instructed you that swimming caused the overgrowth of bacteria in your ear canal and would inhibit the eradication of it? Are you completely stupid?"

"I don't know. I'm a solid C student."

"Oh, god. Don't swim, use the drops three times a day, or develop an abscess and go deaf."

He turned and walked back into his surgery and Louisa followed him, closing the door after her.

"That was rather harsh."

"That was rather stupid. Why do patients come here to entirely disregard my recommendations?"

"You could have been more delicate."

"I'm not here to be delicate. I'm here to treat people."

They heard James in his buggy begin to cry in the waiting room. "I'll go," she said, still upset at his lack of bedside manner.

"Yes. I've more patients to see."

When his day was over, and Morwenna had left, he prepared dinner. Since it had worked out so well with the Fenns, they discussed the possibility of asking the Fenns, and paying them, to be James' baby-sitters.

"After all, you don't maybe know it, but you like Roger," she said.

Martin said nothing for a moment as he chewed his asparagus. "If they wish to watch James, that would be good."

Louisa and Martin worked out what they felt was a decent and reasonable price, easy extra income for them, and after dinner, as Martin cleaned up, Louisa called Roger and Maureen and threw the idea off of them. It seemed win-win all around, and the Fenns agreed. They were paid extra for agreeing to pick up James in the morning and bring him back each afternoon.

She reported the success of the phone call and Martin said his characteristic, "Good."

"I'm excited about this. I'd like to develop our friendship with them. I don't know much about Maureen, but she seems very friendly."

She noticed the slightly suspicious eyes Martin glanced at her, as if leaving their home and socializing with others was some sort of betrayal, a crime against their home, a sin against their independence as a couple.

"I'll write a check tonight, for the first month's payment," he said.

"Thanks." She wished she could write it, but she simply did not have the money in her account. "At least we found our baby-sitters. That's a relief."

"Yes. We should ensure they don't use dummies and don't give him any type of food or formula. Also, they should report any changes in his urinary or bowel habits."

"I'm sure they'll be delighted to do that."

"I should be called at the first sign of any fever."

"We should be called. Martin, they haven't killed their own twins in at least the first year. I guess we're both a little nervous having him gone all day away from both of us."

They stood over their child, watching him as he rested well buttressed by pillows on the sofa, his eyes so bright with life. He smiled up at them and his limbs did a little circular dance. Their arms wrapped around the back of each other, and there was nothing else either needed to say.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

It rained all night, the beginning of a Cornwall autumn, but in the morning although it was still grey and overcast, the rain had stopped. Martin's morning was booked out for him to run around the moor seeing all the inconvenient, rude, and lazy patients who would not make the trip to his surgery.

During the drive to his first patient he allowed his concern for some of Louisa's questions and comment to come to the fore. He did love her, deeply, and he always would. He had from the first moment he spied her on the plane, although her eye, with acute angle-closure glaucoma, had also gained his equal attention. He needed to be with her and he needed to be James Henry's father.

If she forced him to, he'd stay in Port Wenn, but the thought of doing so made it feel like he was decomposing inside. He knew he had to make her happy, what Vicar Porter a year ago had told him was the key to a good marriage, but what Martin didn't understand was if he had to be extremely unhappy to keep Louisa happy. If that was the necessary end result. It would be very inconvenient for him to attempt to break his contract and it would mean no other Hospital would ever trust to offer him such an elevated position, especially after his five year exile to the backwaters of the country, acting only as a GP.

Martin didn't understand Louisa's resistance to London. They'd have a substantial income. They had a large, comfortable apartment, with a view of a cozy neighborhood. If Louisa persisted in wishing to work, childcare would be of the highest quality. It all seemed ideal. He could not really grasp what was wrong with them moving. And he desperately hoped she would not wish them to stay.

The morning was busy with patients; they seemed to be spread out all over the moor. He saw Mrs. Cannell, with multiple sclerosis, whose husband could have driven her to Port Wenn, but who preferred to be in his extensive flower garden, studying his petunias. He went to a poorly controlled diabetic patient who had required a double amputation of his legs below the knees, and whom Martin found eating a jelly donut in his living room. He examined an old sailor with terminal colon cancer, who wished to die at home and would probably do so in the next three months. He was done with his rounds, and looking forward to seeing Louisa at lunch, when his cell phone rang, and sighing, knowing this probably bode poorly for him, answered it.

Morwenna spoke, "Doc, before you come back to the surgery, I just got an emergency call from some fellow who said he sliced himself with a knife and is bleeding pretty badly. Needs stitches."

Just as he had figured. _Clumsy people_. "Who is it?"

"Sebastian Trevenney. What a name! He gave me directions."

Martin didn't know the fellow, and he wrote down the directions feeling confident after four years traversing the ins and outs of the moor roads he could probably find Mr. Trevenney's home before the man bled to death.

"Tell him I'm on my way," Martin said.

It took twenty-five minutes and only one U-turn for Martin to pull into the somewhat obscure farm a bit off the main road. It was a two story home, larger than most. Martin got out of his car, pulled out his large medical bag, and knocked on the front door. No one answered, and, oddly, the door was locked, so he went around the back of the house, skirting a large hedge of bushes, so that when he arrived at the back he was on a little hill looking down at the home from about fifty feet away. He saw a man sitting on the ground with what appeared to be his son nearby. Martin started down the lawn when the two men began odd hand movements as if warning him away, their hands flailing wildly back and forth.

Martin heard them yelling "No! No!"

Suddenly, Martin's heart skipped in his chest as he saw a large German shepherd, all teeth and fiery eyes, bearing down on him from the left. His bag slipped out of his hand as he turned to his right to escape only there was another dog there, only ten feet away, and one behind him….

The dogs leapt at him, and Martin lifted his hands in abject fear, crying out loudly, screaming. He was immediately knocked to the ground, and the dogs, snarling angrily, launched themselves at his suit, grabbing his jacket with their teeth, and trying to rip it off his body. His worst nightmare come true; his hatred of dogs and fear of attack. Martin was helpless on his back, the three dogs large and muscular, and he tried to roll over to protect himself, and cover his face with his arms, but they were preventing him from doing that as their legs held him down and their teeth tore his clothes.

He was yelling but he didn't know what was flying out of his mouth. His limbs were flailing, and it seemed they were alive on their own, flashing about without his conscious direction. There was barking, growling, seeming one hundred decibels loud, surrounding him. He could not escape the dogs.

It was chaotic and terrifying and seemed to be an endless torment. His jacket was ripped open by teeth, the buttons flew off into the damp grass. He tried to push a dog or two off him but they were strong and relentless in their actions. The jacket was jerked behind him up towards his head and it was all he could do to help the beasts get it off his long arms, one at a time, the saliva from their mouths spraying him, their clawed feet pounding on him. When the jacket was fully removed one dog had it in his mouth and shook his head side to side before running off, but Martin never saw that as another dog had grabbed at his tie, still tight around his neck, and was wrenching it outwards, trying to rip it clear off his body. Martin's neck was stretched as the dog tried to drag him through the grass and his shoes slipped on the damp ground preventing him from stopping the forceful movement. He grabbed the tie to try to keep it slack, or untie it, but the forward yanking made the cloth hard and taut. His vision started to grow dark when there was a crisp "SNIP!" and the pressure broke and the dog ran away.

"Get out of here," the man yelled after them, waving his arms wide, as he held some hedge clippers. He put the clippers on the ground and bent down to Martin. "I'm sorry, sorry, Doc. Sorry about that."

Martin was shaking physically in his fear. He stumbled to his feet and attempted to run off, but his legs were weak, the ground was slippery, his shoes slid out behind him, and he landed completely flat on his stomach.

"Here, let me help you," the man said. He was young, not even twenty-five, middle height, around 5'10 and lean, dressed in casual slacks and shirt, with a heavy sweater over it.

He seemed in good shape, and with his help, which Martin abhorred, Martin got to his feet. The three dogs were off to the left thirty feet away, two pulling apart his jacket, and one shaking its head back and forth with his tie in his mouth.

Martin turned to escape, his medical bag in hand.

The man grabbed his forearm. "Wait, don't go! The dogs, I'm sorry. That's old training I didn't know they still had. You're fine, now. They won't attack you again. It was the suit."

"Get off me!" Martin said, pulling his arm from the man's grasp and starting back up the hill.

"Wait! My dad! He's bleeding. You can't leave him like this. You've got to help him"

Martin stopped. He wanted to say, "Let your father bleed to death," but he didn't want that to happen. He had wanted to be a doctor from when he was five years old, and that meant caring for people in need. He didn't have to like them, or even know their names. He was the doctor to Port Wenn and all the surrounding inhabitants. He was obligated to them. They had a right to expect his care.

He turned. "The dogs..."

"They won't attack. We trained them to attack anyone wearing a suit five years ago, when bankers and solicitors were visiting us and threatening to take our home. They stopped visiting us as a result. Only, no one since then has ever come over wearing a suit. It's Port Wenn. No one dresses like that. We'll pay for a new jacket."

"You'll pay for a new suit." His body was starting to ache and pains were becoming apparent; his back stung. He removed the remnant of the tie from around his neck put in his trouser pocket. He tucked in his shirt, all dishelved from the attack. "And, I'm reporting this to PC Penhale."

"Look, just sew up my dad, first. Please."

The conciliatory tone helped defuse the situation as well as having a patient in need. Martin went to his father, and saw the wound in his lower leg, where the knife had slipped out of his hand and neatly sliced through a long swatch of his lower leg. Martin and Xavier, the son, carried Sebastian into the house, and Martin took some time sewing up the leg in a masterful fashion. He gave the man antibiotics, instructions for how to care for the wound and wanted the man to come to the surgery in ten days to have the stitches removed.

Sebastian thanked him and apologized for the sixth time about the dogs. They were well behaved in general, he explained. "About the suit—" he added.

"-You'll get my bill."

"Not off the peg, is it?"

"No."

"Savile Row, then?" Sebastian sighed.

"Gieves and Hawkes."

"Ah, even worse."

Martin left the house and literally ran as fast as he could to his car. He drove down the driveway and a few miles away, and then pulled over. He felt compelled to examine himself before he got home. His favorite blue suit was in tatters. He saw a nice scratch on his right forehead, not deep but a couple of inches long, from a dog's claw. There were also some torn patches to his light blue shirt in front, one cufflink was gone—that would be added to the Trevenney's tab-and he believed a good slice had been taken out of his back, where most of the stinging pain was emanating from. Large grass stains splotched his shirt and trousers. His trousers also were sliced open in a few areas, and his face was dirty. He took the royal blue tie out of his pocket, and frowned. He had liked the suit, the shirt, and the tie. Damn farmers. Damn dogs. Damn Port Wenn. Hideous village filled with mental rejects from normal society.

Martin drove home in perhaps the foulest mood of his life. He pulled into his parking space by the surgery and got out, grabbing his medical bag. As he walked to the few steps up to his front patio, he encountered The Girls, the group of teens who walked about Port Wenn, verbally abusing everyone they wished.

Like some comedy brigade they spoke smoothly and consecutively, as if their words was assigned dialogue written out beforehand, "Oy, Doc, what's with the frown?" one asked, "What happened?" Another picked up, "Some patient not like your bedside manner?" A third added, "Or perhaps Miss Glasson is kicking you out of bed?"

Martin usually refused to respond to them, but this time he exploded. "Shut up, you loathed and obnoxious harpies!" He took steps toward them, and they ran off as a group, with fake screams, and, not too far down Manor Road, by the Large's restaurant, they stopped and giggled.

"Nice insult, Doc!" someone called out. "Harpies!"

Martin ignored him and strode to the side door of his house, barreling into his kitchen. He saw Louisa, home for lunch, and Ruth, sitting at the kitchen table having a cup of tea and slammed his medical bag down on the table, frightening them.

"Martin! What happened?" Louisa asked, standing up.

"Sebastian Trevenney trained dogs to attack anyone wearing a suit!" Martin said.

"Oh, god! Yes, against bankers and solicitors," Louisa said, her eyes widening as she captured his clothes. "Are you alright?" She came to him but he was still angry. He didn't yell per se, but he spoke in a tight, angry tone.

"What a backwater, insane asylum! Both villagers and animals are crazy."

"That's a very cruel thing to say," Louisa said, pulling back, insulted deeply by his comments.

"It's true."

"No, it's not. That's just one family. To state Port Wenn is an asylum; that's a terrible thing to say. This is my home."

"You turned in your resignation."

"You'd said you'd stay!"

Both their developing tirades were interrupted by Martin's sudden grimace. He arched his back, and put his hand awkwardly up behind him, trying to feel the middle section.

"Ow. Is it lacerated?" he asked.

Ruth answered, "There is a long laceration, not deep, but a little bloody, yes. Your shirt is ripped apart, there, as well."

"I'll see those dogs put down," Martin said.

"You can't kill his dogs!" Louisa complained. "They just made a mistake."

"A mistake!" Martin looked at Louisa. He wondered if she cared more for the dogs than for him. That thought, and her angry face, silenced him.

"You should get those wounds tended to, Martin," Ruth said.

The medical advice reached into Martin's ears, and it made clinical sense. It was something that he could respond to and act upon. He needed to shower, dress the wounds, and put on a new suit for his afternoon patients.

He and Louisa stood equally frustrated and upset by the situation, and their partner's reaction.

Ruth added, "Louisa, why don't you grab the spray antibiotic, and some bandages and gauze. Martin you shower and calm down. Louisa will join you upstairs to dress your wounds and then you'll both be ready for a lovely afternoon."

Martin and Louisa had no option by to follow her advice. After, Louisa went back to school and Martin saw his patients, but it was not a lovely afternoon for either of them. Questions about the bandage on his forehead wore down the little patience he ever had in his consultations. His growling bark was evident the rest of the day.

He was done with patients late, just near 6:00 pm, and Louisa was upstairs. He climbed the stairs, noting he was stiffening up a little, his head ached and his back stung. He thought perhaps a Paracetamol seemed indicated. He found her in the guest room, changing James Henry as the infant lay on a towel on the bed.

"Are you hungry?" he asked.

"Starving."

"I'll get a fish."

"Don't you get tired of fish?"

"No."

"Well, I do. Get some chicken breasts, or lamb chops or something else."

"Yes."

As he turned to leave, she asked, "Are you doing okay? Your wounds…?

"Yes, I'm fine."

He took a Paracetamol and then went to the store, and came back with lamb chops, broccoli and zucchini, an odd vegetable combination in her mind, but Martin was a superb cook and it all came out quite appetizing. She poured a glass of wine and saw Martin eye's focus on it like a sniper rifle on an enemy. She hated having to defend herself.

"I've just fed James, he's sleeping and he won't become an alcoholic if I have a glass of wine."

"It's a bad habit to engage in during breast-feeding."

"It's not a habit. It's my first drink in nearly a year," she lied, never having shared about the wine with her mother. "Besides, they used to feed new mothers beer to promote lactation."

"You're not having any trouble lactating. And we could use Domperidone instead."

He stood slowly and grunted a little lifting up the plates. He looked like dogs had dragged him about earlier in the day.

"Should I change your bandages?" she asked.

"Not until tomorrow," he said.

"You look like you're getting stiff."

"Yes."

She was still burning from his earlier comments and they had made her feel even more resilient in moving away. If she left it seemed she was somehow agreeing with Martin that the town was worth leaving; that is was a blessing to do so. Would their relationship always be so full of peaks and valleys—their joy of intimacy and their radical differences of views? How could she be so attracted to him, to his body, to his lips, to being with him, and yet, still want to pull back from him so often? And suddenly what happened today sank home in a new, fresh way she felt guilty about not having realized earlier. Martin had been attacked by dogs. What if they had actually attacked him, not his clothes?

She saw him cleaning up the dishes, so tall and his back so broad. She loved the solidity of his body, that rock-like permanence he represented. However much she had to deal with so many of his irritating personality issues, he was the most steady thing she had ever had in her life, and she loved that, at least, about him.

"My god, Martin, I can't believe it." It was hours too late, she knew, but it was like a full glass in front of her had suddenly been turned upside down.

He turned and looked at her, and saw her concern. "What?"

"The dogs. You could have been…."

His head tilted, in the way he did when he was surprised at times. She felt like a slow student who had just learned after hours of lessons that 2 +2 was 4.

"Yes," he said.

"Thank God you're alright. It must have been terrifying."

"Yes."

"The village; it's not an asylum. Port Wenn has many good things about it."

Martin took a cloth and wiped down the table. "I still loathe it."

Louisa felt personally rejected and affronted by those words.

"Well, I'm—", but she caught herself, cutting short her declaration "I'm staying in Port Wenn". She closed her eyes, stood up, said, "Never mind," and stormed upstairs.

Martin saw her go, as he had seen her burst off before, and still he did not have a reason why.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

Aunt Ruth popped in for lunch the next day, Thursday, as Martin sat in his kitchen, eating some vegetable soup and a chicken sandwich. She was dressed in her typical hose, short skirt, fashionable top, and covered in scarf and long coat.

"Getting cold and nasty outside," she said. "Natives say we're in for a cold and rainy autumn. I shall have to gain some weight or learn how to accept chilly bones."

"Do you want some soup? I've made enough for two."

"No. I dabbled in the kitchen, of all things, and actually made some sort of chicken casserole, and it's surprisingly edible, even as leftovers. Don't know where you got your culinary genes, although I suppose Joan was capable, eating her own flora and fauna."

"She was a good cook."

"A competent farm woman overall, no doubt. I would take a

cup of coffee."

He fixed an espresso, and handed it to Ruth. She sat down across from him at the wooden kitchen table, blowing on the hot liquid.

"How are your war wounds?" Ruth asked.

"Healing."  
"Stiff?"

"And sore."

"You're middle-aged, too old to be dragged on the ground by how many and what types of dogs?"

"Three German shepherds."

"A whole platoon. How did it go with Louisa?

"How do you mean?"

"After you insulted her town via calling it Bedlam By the Bay, and threatened to kill someone's dogs?"

"I don't understand."

"She got very upset, you understood that, right?"

He reviewed his interactions with Louisa the day before. "Yes."

"Do you know why?"

"No."

"That's why I'm here. I thought that perhaps you would like me to interpret Louisa Glasson for you. Give you a hint or two on how to make her happy. Interested?"

He stared at Ruth without saying a word, as she took another sip of coffee.

"Quite excellent, this," she said, holding up the cup.

"How is the artificial saliva working?" he asked.

"Don't go clinical on me to hide your emotional nervousness. That's a very old trait you have; ever since medical school. Do you want to know four easy peasy ways to keep Louisa smiling?"

Martin sighed. He kept thinking of Vicar Porter and his rectal prolapse pig. The Golden Rule of what makes a marriage a success is one's commitment to making one's partner happy. If Martin knew how to do that regarding Louisa, things might be more stable, and perhaps, they would get married.

He asked, "What are they?"

"Good for you," Ruth said. She held up a finger. "Number one; don't insult Port Wenn. Louisa and Port Wenn have a sort of symbiosis; she is the village and the village is she. Not sure of the grammar, but that's the general thrust of the idea. Port Wenn is part of her personal identity. When you insult the village you insult her." She held up a second finger. "Two; don't hate everyone who lives in Port Wenn. Try to make a friend or two, or at least be kind to someone. God knows how you are going to do that. I agree, the inhabitants are very easy to dislike, but nonetheless, you must. Even though you're leaving the village, she'll drag you back for visits, and she would love for you to show some interest in some person here." Third finger, "Three; Louisa needs a lot of verbal affectionate assurances. Tell her she's pretty, or her dress is nice, things women apparently want and require, things that you may think are either obvious or are completely oblivious to, but that are highly important to her." Fourth finger, "And last, think of her and her point of view all the time. Don't make any decision without asking her. She needs to feel respected by you, and her opinion as equally valid. If you do those four things-don't insult Port Wenn, like someone in it, praise Louisa, and ask her opinion-things should work out well. Or, at least from my psychological experience at Broadmoor, she should not go on a rampage, and decapitate some random individual."

Martin had been paying attention to his aunt, but what she asked him to do seemed nearly impossible. The first two were inconceivable; he absolutely hated Port Wenn, he hated the inhabitants. He would ignore those suggestions. But, the last two…saying he loved her, which he did, which he always would. He pictured their love-making…he could continue to say that. He could say her dress was nice, if he realized that was what she wanted to hear when she asked about how she looked.

As he pondered all this, a deep anxiety, living so far inside him he could not even identify where it existed, usually locked up and caged, took hold of him. He knew that fear; he did everything he could to keep it at bay. It had suffused him all throughout his childhood and it was only by obtaining victory over it had he succeeded at school, as a physician, a surgeon, a Hospital Department Head. He had been able to put it in a dungeon, but not kill it. It was invisible, keeping his emotions, his needs, and his cravings, buried in the depths of his psyche. He knew the system he had evolved, that hiding of his emotions, didn't work all the time with Louisa. He knew those emotions were what she wanted. It was simply sheer terror to acknowledge them.

Those emotions had caused him nothing but recurrent pain throughout his life.

He had overcome that anxiety to admit his love. And the result had been sheer bliss. He could, he thought, overcome it in other ways, like he had overcome his blood phobia. He could do it. He could say her dress was nice. He could ask her opinion about something. Martin could feel his heart beating in his chest, the untamed monster unleashed. He didn't know if he could ensure full docility, but he could do more. He breathed in and out to calm himself.

Ruth snapped her fingers in front of her nephew's face. "Martin. What are you thinking?"

He opened his eyes; he hadn't realized they were closed. "Thank you," he said.

"You say that too much to me," she responded. "You're going to lose your Ellingham heritage if it keeps up."

His cell phone, on the charger in his surgery, rang loudly which was a welcomed interruption for Ruth and Martin, as the growing mutual affection both of them evidently shared, and greatly disliked to acknowledge, was conveniently bypassed.

He excused himself and went to answer it. He was gone for longer than Aunt Ruth would have expected, but she amused herself by finding the latest issue of the British Medical Journal on the couch in the living area and skimmed through the articles, thoroughly disinterested in all of them.

Martin finally came back and Ruth looked up at him. His broad shoulders seemed sunk in and his faced combined a rather patchwork look of annoyance, exasperation and futility.

"What on earth is the matter?" she asked.

He stood there, like a statue. He wasn't someone who paced; he extended energy output as required by the situation but did not waste it. He was like a marble tower of angst above her. Ruth moved over on the couch and patted it for him to sit down as well.

He fell into the cushion, like a meteor crashing to the Earth. "It was a conference call. Chris Parsons, head of the local PCT, Dr. Robert Dashwood of Imperial, and Dr. George Melton, my temporary replacement from Durban. They've asked me to stay here another six weeks."

"Oh. I imagine that's not pleasing to you. Why?"

"It's complicated. Chris Parsons—"

"-Your friend—"

"—Yes, thought he had a replacement for me. Unfortunately, that physician was just arrested for pedophilia; children in his medical practice allegedly were the victims."

"Wicked man, if it's true."

"Yes, and it will take some time to do the investigation and see if the charge is valid or not."

"So, that leaves Chris wondering if he can use that physician, if he's innocent, or, if not, scrambling to find someone else and begin the vetting process."

"Yes, so Chris asked for me to stay a little longer."

"There's something else, isn't there? Why was Dr. Dashwood on the phone?"

"Melton wants to stay at Imperial a few weeks more. When he left Durban, he hired contractors to remodel his kitchen, master bedroom and bath and they aren't done yet. He'd like to stay until his house is finished, and Dashwood reminded me that Melton said he'd only come for 'at least' two months."

"Oh dear. Well, it will give you more time to make a friend or two here."

Martin had a deft capacity to scowl; he had very expressive eyes and very malleable lips. He certainly scowled right then.

"How rude," Ruth said, through a glimpse of a grin. "You know, doing the math, that means that both you and Louisa can leave during the half term break, end of October. Perhaps that's best, moving out together."

Martin continued scowling.

"Shall I try again to put a positive spin on your lengthened purgatory here in Port Wenn, the first level of your own personal hell? I'm not really very good taking on the role of Miss Mary Sunshine; I've spent my life analyzing all the big, bad wolves."

Martin still sat silently. In that way he could shut out the reality of the present and imagine a surgical theatre where he would once again operate, once again be the physician that he wanted to be. He wanted to return to his past, be whom he had been, and succeed again where once he had reigned. But, as if his mind was revolting against his dream, in that vision the room suddenly became his surgery in Port Wenn, and it compressed around him, the doors collapsed, and he was trapped inside, crunched inside a room no larger than a box, and no matter how hard he pushed, he could not budge the walls. He came back to the present moment and was relieved to see his aunt by his side.

"Do you think," Ruth asked, "Not too get too mystical, or Karmic, or philosophic about Destiny, that perhaps Life, you know, capital 'L', is telling you that indeed you should stay here?

"No."

"Are you sure? There are signs pointing that way. All the roadblocks to leaving."

"No. Absolutely not."

"Just a thought."

They sat on the couch staring off into space.

"I wonder what Louisa will say," Aunt Ruth mused.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

Louisa Glasson at that moment was talking on the phone to her best friend Isobel Brown, who had come to Port Wenn to be her Maid of Honor at Louisa's failed wedding a year ago. Isobel's pregnant body had had her own plans that day, and had given birth to a daughter, out of wedlock, and without any partner in sight. Nonetheless, it had been a blessing, and they had stayed closely in touch throughout the year. Isobel's daughter, now coming up on her first birthday, named Grace, was doing well. Isobel was still working in Plymouth as a manager at a department store. They spent at least one lunch hour a month chatting to each other on the phone, or via Skype. Although there was only a forty mile distance between them, it was far enough with their own busy lives to prevent a lot of getting personally together.

Louisa listened to the trial and tribulations of being a single mom, which Isobel had been forced to embrace, with no man in her life, her only income the income she earned. She did get a little help from her parents, who lived outside London, but the baby stayed at a babysitter's, which took a huge chunk of money out of Isobel's moderate income. Since she had a decent job in Plymouth, where she had moved to live with a boyfriend-although they had soon broken up-and she liked the area, she had decided to stay there alone. She was close to her parents, who had a small flat just for them, and her two sisters both in the Lake District, with their own kids and careers and husbands. A few times a year she saw them in visits. But, finding a husband was a long way off for her.

"He may not be perfect, but he's a doctor, with money, loyal to you, who says he loves you, and will always love you." Isobel sighed loud enough Louisa heard across the country. "I'd date a one armed, one legged, albino dwarf if he fit those qualifications."

"He has his issues," Louisa said.

"Yes, but so do you."

That took Louisa by complete surprise. "What?"

"Louisa, you know I love you, too. We've been best friends for more than thirty years, and I'd do anything for you. So, can I be perfectly frank?"

"Well, I don't know…" Louisa had a sinking feeling and she felt compelled to hang up the phone. After all, it was near the end of the lunch break and she had to ensure the students were heading back to classes.

"Don't hang up. Let me speak and maybe, just maybe, give you something to think about."

"I'm not sure…"

"Right, here it goes. I've listened to you for years talking about Martin Ellingham and your desire _for_ him, and your disapproval _of_ him. You told me what he's done and said, the bad breath comment after your first kiss, and you kicking him out of the cab; over and over, I've heard it all. And, I've come to know you much better and also have a little inkling of Doc Martin. Here's what I think is going on. One, you need to get a sense of humor and not take everything so personally. Two, I think, and I'm not a psychologist or anything, just your best friend, but it seems to me that Martin desperately wants to love you and be loved by you, and is totally uncomfortable and awkward regarding anything having to do with love. What he is comfortable with is medicine, and it seems to me that whenever things get too emotional, he goes clinical. So, he's not some guy on a white horse always saying the perfect Harlequin line, it's just a doctor telling you he loves you by being concerned about your sweet tooth. If you can lighten up, and see the love under his comments, I think you can really make a big difference."

Louisa had listened to her friend's comment sitting casually, as if she was not really listening, but her ears grabbed in every vowel, consonant and syllable and she imbedded the words in her mind.

"I have a sense of humor," Louisa said, a bit defensively.

"Not really. I mean girls getting pissed and goofing around, sure, but not regarding dating and love. There you always needed everything to be perfect, and you always took everything so seriously. You probably always will. Childhood abandonment issues or something. Who knows? Who cares? It's just best to be aware of it and then not react to it, if you can. Just let it go. Martin is always going to say and do stupid and awkward things, just get used it and let it go, because, he loves…ah, crap, my time's up. My head manager's just given me the eye. I've got to get back to work."

"But—"

"We'll talk soon! Sorry for rambling so terribly!"

Louisa heard the click and the silence of the line. She hung up herself, and sat at her desk, so much going through her mind. She was hurt, slightly humiliated, and almost felt a little betrayed by Isobel. Isobel could hardly understand the complexities of her relationship with Martin so well. Sure, she had shared a great deal about the highs and many lows of their time together, and their times apart. But, what she said, Louisa not having a sense of humor…taking things too personally…Martin's referencing clinical observations…God, he did that all the time, at all the wrong times, the times she most needed to hear something so desperately else.

She had so much to think about.

"One of the students has a fever," Sally Chadwick, the school secretary, said, peeking her head into Louisa's office. "Just heard it from the teacher. His mother's coming to pick him up."

"Should I call the doctor?"

"Your Martin? No, the mom said all her kids are getting the same cold."

Louisa nodded. _Her Martin_. She stood up, knowing she had so much more to do today at school, and so much more to think about tonight. But, before she could get going, Stu MacKenzie, his head still blazing with orange hair, knocked on her open door and came in.

"Mind if we have a chat, Louisa?" he asked with his light, Scottish brogue. "Won't take too long."

Louisa felt a little breathless seeing Stu. She stammered out, "Come in."

Stu was on the Board of Governance of the school, and had always been a supporter of her, as teacher and as head mistress. She was always grateful that his influence on the Board had held great sway in having her initially hired, made Head Mistress, and then rehired and made Head Mistress again.

He entered and gently closed the door behind him. "A bit of privacy, if you don't mind." He sat down in the chair in front of her desk and leaned forward. "To get directly to the point, we received your resignation letter, Louisa. I know you sent it weeks ago, but in the summer holiday, letters can get put aside and ignored. We've read it now."

"I see."

"Are you sure you want to resign? We don't want you to go. You're doing good work here, everyone on the Board likes you, and we really don't want to have to search for a new Head again. More resumes to read, another bloody interview panel. Are you sure you wish to leave?"

Her lungs seemed completely airless, like she and Stu were sitting in outer space. She wanted to speak, but she could not inhale, and her mouth felt so dry her tongue was lifeless.

"Louisa?"

"That's, that's very kind, Stu. Very kind of you to say. I have been…reconsidering things…a little…perhaps…"

"Good. So you'll stay? We'll rip up the letter and that will be that."

"Um, no, don't do that, yet. Can you give me another week or two to think about it?"

"I suppose." Stu stood up and grabbed hold of the doorknob. He set his mouth firmly and turned back to Louisa. "It's none of my business, and I shouldn't say anything, but let the old bugger Doc head off to London. He never supported you, while we all did. This is your home. You've always got a place here."

Louisa said nothing, but made a brief, half-hearted smile. He left and an odd sensation passed through Louisa, as if in the middle of the school full of kids, teachers, and staff, she was frightfully alone. Like being the only star left in the entire black, soulless sky.

It was nearly unbearable. She dashed into the hallway, and looked in a classroom, catching the eye of the teacher, who smiled and waved at Louisa. Louisa smiled back and then leaned against the wall, resting her back and palms against it. It should have offered her some support, some solidity, but it was as if it wasn't real, it didn't really exist. She closed her eyes and waited a few minutes and finally it passed.

She had a lot to think about.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

After school was over, Louisa stayed in a committee meeting with teachers and parents. When she arrived at the Surgery, James was sleeping in his buggy, the Fenns having dropped him off a couple of hours earlier. Martin was just finishing up with patients. He and Morwenna, dressed in her usual odd mishmash of clothes, discussed the next day's schedule, Friday, last day of the week, which usually was a very busy day. Morwenna left, letting Martin know she was up for helping out with another surgery any time soon.

Martin came into the kitchen and watched Louisa holding James.

Martin asked, "May I?" and Louisa handed James over to him. He held James for a few minutes, rubbed and kissed his head, and then returned him to her. He left to head to the Platt to get some fresh fish and made dinner upon his return.

As the were eating, Martin said, "I had a phone call today."

"Hmm?"

"A conference call. Chris, and Drs. Dashwood and Melton, from Imperial."

"What did they say?"

"They asked me to stay here until the end of October."

Louisa almost choked on her potato. "Oh. That's half term for me. What's the reason?"

He explained the situation.

Louisa mandated to herself that she act as if it was no big deal. "How do you feel about that?"

"I'd rather be in London."

"Yes, I know." Whether it was selfish or not, Louisa was delighted about his extension. She mused, "Perhaps you're meant to stay here."

"Aunt Ruth said the same."

"Do you think so?"

"No. But we can then move to London together."

"Oh, yes, I suppose so."

"If you wish to…"

"As you've said, I did resign."

"Yes."

There was not much more talking at dinner and when it was over, Martin cleaned up, and then Louisa sat at the kitchen table getting some schoolwork done. Martin stood watching her for a minute and then he retreated to his office and sat at his desk, thinking things through. He thought of the Vicar's words and Aunt Ruth's, and he ran old conversations he'd had with Louisa through his head to try to pick out what might be pertinent to his goals. It took awhile, but he thought of a couple, and he did some scribbling on a piece of paper, and then did some research on his laptop. When he had the information required, he gathered his courage, which was faulty at best, and returned to Louisa studying her papers.

Martin stood there, dumb and frozen, a towering presence, like a stone monolith. Louisa ignored him for a couple of minutes, and then stopped, looked up high and saw his eyes, all soft and vulnerable, which in the right moments tended to melt her heart, and in the wrong ones, covered her heart with iron.

"Yes, Martin?"

Martin did something new and rather extraordinary. He pulled out the chair next to her, "Can I sit down?"

"Yes, of course."

He did, and she still had to wait a few more long seconds for him to speak. "Um, I've a couple of ideas."

"Oh. What are they?"

He put the piece of paper on the table. "I think we should, each week, on Sunday, decide what to eat for supper the next week. Together." She stared at him. "I've made a chart—Sunday to Saturday night, with spaces to choose for protein, vegetables and grains. Essential macronutrients. Since you don't always like to eat fish."

Louisa continued to stare at Martin. Then she stared at the paper with the proper little spaces all worked out, and then she stared back at Martin.

"Who are you and what have you done to my baby's father?"

"I'm the baby's father."

"Yes, yes. Martin, this is…wonderful. So…considerate and thoughtful. I'm, I'm…" She saw his eyes again, beautiful blue grey, so unprotected, so open. And her heart melted. She put her hand on his and grabbed tightly. "Thank you."

"So, it's good?"

"Yes, good."

"Since it's Thursday night, I've added two extra boxes this week for Friday and Saturday. Do you want to fill it in now?"

"Sure!"

He held his pen in hand, waiting for her to speak, to dictate their meals for the next week.

"Oh, right." She listed off various main dishes, including, for politeness a number of fishes, as well as chicken, beef and lamb. She then chose the grains, asking for his preferences, as well; and did the same with the vegetables. Two nights were left empty.

"We have to eat supper on Thursday and Saturday," Martin explained.

"Yes, I know, but I thought one day would be open for spontaneity, and one day we'd go out to eat."

"Spontaneity?"

"Yes, you know, just eating that night what one has a sudden impulse for."

Martin's eyes blinked a few times.

"You aren't really very spontaneous, are you?" Louisa said, stating the obvious.

"No."

"Well, then, I'll be."

Still not quite grasping the concept, Martin asked, "On which of the days would you choose to be spontaneous?"

"You need to fill in all the blanks right now?"

"Yes."

"Um, Thursday."

"So, Thursday will be 'spontaneous', and then Saturday we'll go out for supper?"

"Yes, that sounds lovely."

Martin finished writing in the little chart. Louisa liked his fine cursive hand-writing, tight and neat. "We should get a magnet and put it on the refrigerator."

"Yes."

"We'll do this every Saturday night, then, arrange the week to come?"

"If you wish."

"It's a brilliant idea, Martin. Really brilliant. What's the second one?"

It felt to Martin as if he facing hungry lions in an African veldt, weaponless and alone. He felt that buried anxiety inside roaring, like a lion, and he remembered all the times in the past when some action he did, or word he said, had caused the emotional result of his lying near death, incapacitated, distraught.

Nonetheless, he dove into the deep end of the pool.

"I think you should buy a desk, to work on." He pointed to the far side of his living space, in the corner between the far wall and the fire place. "We can put it there, against the wall, so you have your own area, at any time, to work."

Louisa was stunned. That was another thoughtful problem solver. It was too good to be true. Louisa had to find the flaw in the reality. "Did you already buy me one?"

"No. I went on-line and found an office supply store in Truro. We can go there Saturday. A filing cabinet would fit, too. You should ensure the chair supports your back and is properly ergonomic. You tend to slouch too much."

Louisa's mouth hung open while Martin closed his. Had he said too much? The wrong things? If so, he had no idea what the wrong things were. He trusted Aunt Ruth, but her expertise was with the criminally deranged.

"Martin," Louisa said, and suddenly she kissed him, wrapping her arms around his neck, pulling him closer. He was too shocked to respond for a second or two, and then that electricity sparked between them, palpable on their lips, a dancing energy, and he held her neck, her face, and the kiss seemed to last forever. They felt expanded, one hundred times their normal size. And when they broke, it was solely for air.

"We'll go to Truro and buy the desk, and then have lunch there, and perhaps see a movie. The whole family on an outing," Louisa said, smiling.

The whole family on an outing. His whole family. He was not much of a shopper but being with Louisa and James in Truro a few hours seemed eminently tolerable.

Martin had just one concern. "Our eating out Saturday night should begin the week after this Saturday, otherwise, we'll be eating out for lunch and supper. It's hard to avoid excess salt, fat, and refined carbohydrates going to restaurants that often."

Louisa's heart contracted at his words, those clinical words, that mood-killer, Martin's innate ability to take something beautiful, like a kiss under a tree, and turn it into a medical analysis. Louisa felt herself pulling back, ready to dash from the room, and her phone call with Isobel was recalled. Have a sense of humor. Don't react to everything. It was hard, so hard. She felt an internal battle, a war going on inside her. She didn't even know which side she was on, or who would win. It was like she had a form of emotional tetanus and her heart was caught in an unbearable spasm.

"Yes…next Saturday night…" she said, almost like a robot, her words spoken in a monotonous manner. It was like she had driven off the main road of her life and was on a dirt path, traveling deep into new territory.

"Good."

"Yes, good."

Louisa felt her tension release a little, the armies calling a temporary truce.

James Henry, sleeping in his little basket on the kitchen table, suddenly woke and belted out a howl, and then launched into a fit of crying. Louisa reached over and picked him up, giving him a tight cuddle, standing to move around and comfort him.

She went upstairs and breastfed James, and after a little time he spit up some milk on her protective shoulder cloth, and then calmed down. She changed his diaper and put him in his crib, in their bedroom, near their bed. Martin came in without her hearing; he could move so softly for his size. He stood by her, as they both watched James on his back, cooing away, flexing and extending his arms and legs.

"Infants use up immense calories in their limb movements," Martin said, as he touched his child's forehead in a well-established ritual.

They stood next to each other, their bodies lightly touching. She took hold of his hand, again, and he closed his large palm tightly around fingers. That shared warmth heated up her entire body.

"Let's burn off some calories ourselves," she murmured into his ear. "Positive feedback for your ideas."

"What?"

"I feel a bit spontaneous right now."

"But, we've already eaten supper."

How a man of his outstanding intellect could be so dense at times confounded Louisa. Give him a medical mystery and it unfolded its secrets in minutes; give him a partner suggesting sex, and he was clueless. Her first impulse was to feel rejected and frustrated and that directed her to return to the kitchen table, and finish her work. But, her libido was strong, Isobel seemed to a an angel speaking in her ear, and with some impatience she stated, "Sex, Martin. I meant spontaneous sex."

He lifted his head in a little nod. "Oh. I see. The cognitive approval of my suggestions has stimulated your libido."

Isobel's angel whispered "_Ignore it, ignore it. Sense of humor_." Why, after all these years, was Louisa still so susceptible to Martin's stunningly graceless words? All Louisa could at first manage was, "I suppose."

But, then, finding something inside herself she didn't even know existed, she came to him and asked, "What, what about your libido?" as she lightly touched the healing claw wound on his forehead. Half of her didn't even know what she was doing as her fingers sought to soothe the pain, and half just watched as a spectator.

Her caress on his skin, over the scabs, didn't hurt, but made the wound feel like it was magically healed. He lifted his hand and gently pulled off the band that kept her hair in a thick ponytail. Aunt Ruth seemed to be in the room, standing in the corner, arms crossed, watching him.

"Your hair is so beautiful, so soft," he said, as it ran through his fingers, in its silent fall to her shoulders. He was as shocked by his words as Louisa was. Both wondered if he had said what he did or if some unknown ghost had spoken to her in their room.

_Finally_…."Martin…". She tucked her head against his chest, her arms wrapping around his torso, wide and set like an ancient redwood tree.

Panic suffused him and he began back-tracking. "No doubt the daily use of your herbal conditioner-"

"-Shut up!" she said, and again, she felt her legs preparing to fly from the room_. Herbal conditioner_, such a stupid, ruinous comment. But, she forced them to stay still, the first time in her life she had stood up to her body's instinct to engage a masterful escape, and as her thighs trembled in extreme dissonance, she pulled his lips to hers.

_Please_, she silently begged. _Say nothing or something good._

Martin shut up. He received her kiss and then, after a couple of seconds, when the spark of their touching aroused him, he kissed her right back deeply.

That worked.

Isobel and Ruth were both chased from the room, as, seeking privacy, Martin and Louisa were successful in generating a touching fusion of spontaneous calories.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

The weather on Saturday wasn't ideal, with heavy grey clouds making the sky look bleakly swollen. Rain spattered about now and then, but seemed too indecisive if it wanted to stop overall or unleash a downpour.

In the back, James Henry was seat-belted into his infant seat, and Martin and Louisa sat in the front seat as he began the forty-five minute drive to Truro.

It was an uneventful trip as they listen to some classical music Martin found on the radio. Over the Mozart, Louisa was subjected to his discussion on the importance of an ergonomic seat and proper height of the desk, as she was getting older, was not as active as she should be, and thus at risk for the development of low back pain, and even worse, osteoporosis. A properly fit chair and desk would help maintain her musculoskeletal form.

She glared at him for a while during the long exposition. His repetitive dissertations on her health astounded her. Had he forgotten that only a year ago his verbal thesis on her period and estrogen production had nearly permanently broken them up? She sat there, stewing, trying to find the love in his anatomical description of the ligaments and tendons holding the spine intact, and how poor posture, lack of exercise and bad diet could weaken them.

Finally, her patience was over-run. "My back is just fine, thank you," she snarled, pushing Isobel's imaginary angel off her shoulder. "Any other conversation would be fine."

He kept his eye on the road, always on the look for maniac moor drivers, but risked a glimpse at her. "I'm just trying to—"

"-Yes, yes. I know," she interrupted. Isobel's angel had climbed back on top her shoulder. Louisa closed her eyes and sighed. "I know," she said softly.

I_sobel, you ask too much of me._

Martin found the store easily, having recorded the address and directions from his computer. Inside, they wandered over to the desks and chairs. Martin made Louisa sit in nearly every single chair, no matter the price. She felt like a child, when her mother used to rarely take her shopping and made her try on dresses they could not afford, just to see how nice she looked in them. Only now, she could buy any chair she wanted, and she had Martin seriously concerned about which one was best for her. It was a bumbling sweetness, and she responded, actually loving the attention. She felt cared for, and smiled at his directions to put this chair with that desk and so forth.

Finally, Louisa decided on a wooden desk and filing cabinet, and brown executive chair.

"It'll look very nice in that living area," she said.

"It fits your height and low back curvature."

There was no discussion of cost and Martin used a credit card for payment, including them delivering it the next week and bringing it inside their home and setting it all up.

"We could have Bert and Al do all that," Louisa said. "They'd do it at a fair price."

"No. Bert shouldn't lift heavy items, and I don't trust their competency."

Even if his concerns were valid, Louisa didn't like to hear them.

When the sales were done, and receipts in Martin's pocket, Louisa said, "Thank you, Martin."

He was uncomfortable with her gratitude. When he said nothing, she added, rolling her hands in explanation, as if guiding him, as she had done before, "You're welcome."

"You're welcome," he repeated.

She kissed his cheek, there, in public, in the store, and Louisa was fairly sure he blushed a little. That made up for the whole car ride out. "Lovely, let's have lunch."

He pushed James Henry along in his buggy, the top up to protect the well-dressed child from any drops of rain. Louisa wondered if they should stop by his friend Chris Parsons and surprise him and his family with a visit from Martin and his. Martin's quick "No" ended that discussion.

Louisa knew a little restaurant not far from the office supply store and directed Martin to it.

"We can't eat there. Their food hygiene rating is only 3," he said.

"What?"

"Since you decided we should eat lunch in Truro, I reviewed all the restaurants and only found two acceptable ones."

"Really? Which ones were they?"

"Trudor Tearoom received a Pass—Eat Safe certification. They serve sandwiches and salads."

"And the other?"

"Tru-Orient Restaurant. They received a 4 rating."

"I see. That was…interesting of you to do that research. I'm not sure it was necessary…."

"I hardly feel that gastroenteritis should be the end result of our visit here."

"I suppose…."

"Um, do you have a preference?"

They ate a simple lunch at the tearoom, and upon Louisa's urging, ignoring Martin's sour grimace, dragged him to a movie theatre and sat him down for nice comedy drama.

"Didn't you watch movies in London?" she asked, as Martin repugnantly eyed the popcorn being eaten by the person seated to his right.

"Rarely. The 'butter' used on that high calorie snack is rife with chemicals," he said.

"But it tastes good."

"Yes, but snacking can cause obesity."

Louisa was glad she had had the foresight to not buy a box of candies herself. Luckily for Martin, James Henry's good behavior during the afternoon ended quite succinctly twenty-five minutes into the movie, and his continued howling meant the removal of three of them from the theatre. Louisa breast-fed him in the female rest room, and yet the baby didn't stop crying until they had been driving home for fifteen minutes.

"Too bad about the movie," she said, turning around to sit normally, and withdraw her touch from her now happy son's chest.

Martin said nothing as he drove.

"Perhaps we can see one again."

Martin grunted.

They got home in pouring rain, and Martin was called out to see two patients in the afternoon, one a child he diagnosed with a probable bacterial pneumonia infection, and an ambulance was called; the other was a broken finger from a hammer blow due to another idiotic villager thinking he could DIY and put up new shelves on a wall.

As he drove home Martin realized the day had not gone that badly. Louisa had chosen the desk and chair with good consideration. The restaurant had only used a light spread of mayonnaise in his sandwich. James Henry had timed his crying perfectly. It had been a pretty good day.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

Martin woke early, only his opened eyes an indication of his consciousness; he lay still, hearing Louisa breathe normally and watching his son's chest rise and fall in the crib. He was filled with dread. There was no chance of him falling back asleep, so he stayed there for an hour until Louisa naturally awoke. She stretched and rubbed her eyes and smiled at Martin.

"Good morning," she said.

"I've been thinking."

"Good morning to you, Louisa."

"Yes."

She glanced at James and he was still asleep. Martin was looking at her and she asked, "What are you thinking?"

"I think you should visit the Fenns on your own today."

"No. No, Martin, we're going as a couple to visit another couple, friends of ours."

"Why?"

"Why? To chat, enjoy each other's company-"

"I don't chat."

"Yes, trust me, I know. But, we're schedule to see our friends for a lovely little afternoon social call. I mean, you can talk, can't you? You talk as a physician, don't you?"

"Yes, of course—"

"Well, today just talk as a normal person does! Either in London or here, we're going to have to socialize. You may be able to live in a cave, but I can't."

She was angry, and got out of bed, and slammed the bathroom door. That woke James, and the door opened immediately and Louisa stuck her head out. "Did I just wake James?"

Martin got out of bed, and went to the crib, "Yes."

"Sorry about that." She closed he door softly and then reopened it once more. "But, you are going to the Fenns with me, and you will talk to them. This is very important to me. I have to wee." She closed the door gently the third time.

The dread burst out of Martin and expanded to fill the entire bedroom.

In the drive over to the Fenns, Louisa realized how important this play date was to her. If she was leaving Port Wenn and going to London, she had to have Martin know she would need them to create new friendships and socialize regularly with others. On her own, here, Louisa had friends that even without Martin's input, could help her need for connection. But, in London, Martin's home territory, until she was established in a new school, to avoid cabin fever, she and Martin were going to have to socialize as a couple. Could he do it? Could she commit to London with him wanting them to live as a threesome, alone and independent of others?

They arrived at the Fenns around 1:00 pm, and were greeted at the door by a smiling Roger. Louisa and he hugged briefly and Martin entered carrying James in his chair seat, nodding a brief and mostly silent, "Hello."

Roger sat them down in their crowded living, in Roger's old home, which consisted of small rooms with thick beams on the ceiling. There was a tea kettle and a plate with some chocolate biscuits on it. Maureen was on the floor with their twin toddlers, sitting on a large blanket which was covered with various toys. Louisa and Maureen exchanged "Hello's" as Martin stood by, like a vertical wooden beam, perhaps one that had fallen off the ceiling.

Maureen came and took James Henry from Martin, who looked suspiciously at her actions. She plopped the seat down on the blanket, undid the belts and put him on his back. Laura and Katy "ooh'd" and "aah'd" and came to James nearly immediately taking off his little hat.

"The hat should stay on. He may still be chilled from the weather," Martin instructed the toddlers.

But, the girls ignored him, Louisa said "It's fine," and Roger directed them to sit and relax.

Louisa sat next to Maureen and the two women immediately began discussing infants, children, and so forth.

"So, how's fatherhood?" Roger asked Martin. "I love it myself."

"Good."

"Who would have thought two old, crotchety bachelors like us would have found someone and had children less than a year apart?"

"Hmm."

"Very coincidental. And, a blessing, too! Coffee?"

"Um…"

"It's not hospital coffee. You should be able to swallow it."

Martin watched the coffee pouring into his cup.

Roger smiled, "Your loquacity is one of your personality highpoints, Martin."

"I'm not loquacious."

"And so is your literalness. You know, I've been thinking about the best way to lessen your trauma being here. I thought, to ease into socializing, we could discuss some medical topics."

"What medical topics?"

"Well, why do you think so many people get cancer?"

"Cancer has multi-factorial risk factors."

"Such as?"

"Smoking is one." Martin saw Laura, dummy in her mouth, approaching James with a dummy in her hand. "No dummy!" he said, pointing his finger at them.

"Martin isn't an advocate of using them," Louisa explained.

"Really?" Maureen asked, taking the dummy from her daughter's hand and then smoothing down the light brown hair on her head.

"Dummies cause dental development problems and tooth decay," Louisa explained.

"That's a medical topic," Roger grinned.

"I hadn't heard that," Maureen said. "I guess we'll have to save for braces."

"I'll add that to the budget," Roger agreed.

Martin, looking back and forth at each of them, said, "It makes more sense to stop using dummies"

"Ah, I like buck teeth," Roger said. "It's cute in kids."

Martin's eyebrows lowered. "You're joking."

"Yup."

Martin shook his head once and tasted his coffee. It was bearable. Unfortunately the idea to keep chatting was not.

The afternoon went well for three of them. Martin sat quietly, an outsider observing others socialize, listening well, with occasional monosyllabic or brief sentence contributions. He turned down all the sweets offered by Maureen, and the glass of wine poured by Roger. Louisa felt herself cringing inside, that even here, in the most congenial, amiable atmosphere, where people strove to draw him out, Martin seemed incapable of fitting in. At some point, Maureen wondered if they should play some gin rummy. Louisa and Roger agreed.

"No," Martin said.

"Do you know how to play?" Maureen asked.

"No."

"Hearts?"

"What about hearts?" Martin asked.

"Can you play hearts? The card game?"

"No."

"Spades? It's another game."

"No."

"Martin, did you grow up in the woods, raised by wolves?" Roger asked. "Can't you play any card game?"

"Only bridge."

"Bridge? How am I not surprised? You any good at it?"

"I was Regional master at public school."

"Regional Master. That's a pretty high level. How old were you?"

"Seventeen."

For a few seconds, Louisa, Maureen and Roger simply looked at each other and then Roger said, "It's seems you're as smart as you appear to be. Do you still play?"

"Not for years."

"Miss it?"

"No."

"You mean, you didn't' enjoy playing it?"

"It depended on my partner. Not often."

"Why did you do it, then?"

"My grand-father discouraged me from taking it up, saying I wouldn't be a good player."

"Just like the clocks," Louisa said.

"Yes," Martin agreed.

How much of Martin had been formed solely to show his relatives he had worth and skill and talent, even if they believed Martin had none? Louisa had been bewildered and flustered with monosyllabic Martin the entire time they were at the Fenns, but suddenly, she felt enormous compassion for him.

Roger and Maureen did not understand those last comments, and after shrugging his shoulders at her, he turned to Martin. "You know, I've played a bit myself. Oh, not at any tournaments, but I had a skill at bidding. If I can get a decent threesome together would you like to make it a fourth? Nothing serious; just for fun?"

Martin's mouth was on automatic to say "No," but he saw Louisa, her head nodding softly, her eyes looking at him with clear affection, and he remembered Auth Ruth saying he should socialize, and he wanted to make Louisa happy, but this, it was misery, and he did not know, simply, how to do it.

He simply could not do it.

"No," he said, and he watched Louisa close her eyes.

"Alright, well, let me know if you change your mind," Roger said, endlessly pleasant.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

Martin sat in his surgery, later that evening, after dinner, as Louisa read in bed upstairs. He knew he had disappointed her at the Fenns, but he could not have acted any other way. He didn't know any other way to be. Being with people mostly confused him, how they could spend so much time discussing nothing, gossiping, wasting their time. How they seemed to get enjoyment out of it was a mystery to him.

He sat in perfect posture, hands on his desk. He recalled the vicar—_make your partner happy_. He recalled Auth Ruth—_be considerate of her opinions_.

Martin wracked his brains for something to do, to act on the advice. Once again he reviewed all the previous discussions they had had over the last two months; it took a long time. But, then he believed he came across something. He went on-line again with his laptop, and printed out a few pages, and then went upstairs to their bedroom.

She was already in her nightie, reading some mindless modern novel and James was sleeping on her stomach, his small body rising up and down with her breathing.

He entered and in his typically quiet voice, said, "Louisa."

"Mmm?" she asked, not lifting her eyes from the pages.

"I've been thinking."

She put the book down on the bed. "Been analyzing more restaurant safety certificates? In Bude? Or Delabole?"

"No."

"Right. Never mind. What have you been thinking?"

He sat down next to her, still fully dressed in his black suit, white shirt and red tie. Louisa wondered if his father had said Martin couldn't dress well, too, which was how he had mastered wearing such elegant suits.

He put down the sheets of paper on the bed. "Since we're here for another five or six weeks, we have time to repaint, um, our London apartment."

"_Our_ apartment? What?" That was the first time he had ever called it "their" apartment, instead of the apartment he had chosen, rented, and painted to his taste.

"Here's a blueprint of it. And paint swatches. What color would you like each room to be?"

Louisa's wide-open eyes took in the apartment floor plan and then she picked up the papers, which had endless colors on them from Sea Foam green to Enchanted Twilight grey.

Louisa looked up as if she had just opened up her best, most wanted, all time favorite Christmas present. Martin drove her crazy. After an afternoon of failed socialization, he offered this unbelievable gift. At least if she went to London and lived a lonely life stuck in their apartment, the walls could be colored just as she wished.

"I'll rehire the contractors," he said, adding, "Perhaps not peach. In the living room." That was the color she had previously suggested for their living room, and which, on second review, did seem overly feminine.

"I…I don't know what to say." She reached out and touched his cheek. "Martin, this is marvelous." She could not lean forward with James on her stomach. "Come closer."

He lowered his head and they kissed and it was a long, deep kiss.

When they separated he asked, "Is that positive feedback?"

She nodded. "Yes, Martin, very positive."

Martin understood rationally that by including Louisa in some decisions, she seemed to appreciate it. He could attempt to keep thinking of doing that in the future. He liked the positive feedback.

His cell phone rang and answering it, and asking some preliminary questions, Martin realized he had to go out again that weekend and make a house call. A senior with emphysema was having chest problems. He left, medical bag in hand, and returned an hour later. By that time, Louisa had ideas for every room in their apartment, and had stirred up her libido in choosing all the paint colors. She waited for Martin to come upstairs but an hour later, he was still downstairs. It was getting late, and eventually, she put James in his crib and descended down to the living area. There she saw Martin asleep, in his suit, resting his head against the back of the sofa, medical journal open on his lap. He looked sweet there, calm in his exhaustion. But, not, she hoped, too exhausted.

_ Have a sense of humor…_

She came up to him and removing her underwear, slipped onto his lap. She woke him with kisses all over his face, and he started, seeing her posed as she was.

"What are you doing?" he asked, as she ran a finger down his nose.

"I'm feeling emotional," she joked.

"Emotional? What do you mean?"

"As if I'm getting my period type of emotional." She kissed him but he didn't respond the way she wanted. She loosened his tie and undid the top button of his shirt.

"You shouldn't get your period for another four months, given the average the time it takes for menses to begin in a breast-feeding mother."

She kissed him again, and murmured, "Nonetheless, I'm feeling emotional. Remember? When I kissed you at the concert? And you diagnosed me as being emotional? For the entire ride home?"

The entire ride home was not overall a mutually entertaining memory, considering she had broken up with him as he stopped by her cottage door. He pulled back, his eyes questioning. "Are you…making fun of me?"

She looked him directly in the eye. "I'd rather make love to you."

With that, Louisa lowered her hand between Martin's legs, and with the least amount of rubbing, found his physical response quite readily acceptable. With due haste and Martin's surprising compliance, she undid his belt, button and zipper on his trousers and pulled them and his boxers down onto the floor. Moist herself, she lowered herself down onto him, joining them together.

"Oh, god," she said, as a slight moan escaped his mouth.

For a moment his arms wrapped around her, holding her tightly against his clothed chest, disallowing her any movement. They kissed and he released her, only to pull off her nightgown so that she sat wonderfully naked before him. She began her movements up and down, enhanced by Martin's skillful placement of his hands and his lips over her body, which brought her quickly to her peak, and she sat down hard on top of him, using small movements to promote it. She cried out and trembled in ecstasy.

Without losing a second Martin, who had had the dexterity to remove his shoe and pulled his foot from the confines of his trouser leg and boxers, twisted to the side, firmly holding Louisa still entwined with him, and lay her gently on her back on the sofa, her head resting on a pillow. The urge taking him, Martin immediately initiated his thrusts inside her. For having being woken up late at night, Martin's stamina was impressive and his thrusts maintained strongly through the minutes. Instead of getting tired of it, his angle over her was perfect, hitting all the good spots, and Louisa was surprised to feel the glow of sex reborn anew inside her. From far away, the feeling slowly grew in intensity and she grabbed his back and pleaded with Martin to continue, keep going, don't stop.

He complied, her words encouraging his own excitement. Not long after, Louisa shook again, not as exquisitely as the first time, but enough to send waves lightly up her body, her nerves dancing inside her. Martin finished soon after, his entire body jerking several times as he released. She always liked seeing that, the complete loss of control in an otherwise remarkably controlled man.

Louisa had heard of it happening, but had never orgasmed twice in one sexual act. She felt rather special, somehow more of a woman, and for a few seconds, she clasped Martin as tightly to her as she could and pecked little kisses around his face.

They lay together on the sofa, little sounds of pleasure sliding from their lips.

"That was lovely, Martin."

"Am I too heavy?" he asked, shifting his large frame so that he laid more on her side, than directly over her. She smiled that his upper half was still fully clothed and his lower half was buck naked.

Louisa shook her head no, so delighted that he had not said anything weird or bizarre.

"I'll sterilize the sofa after we get up," Martin added.

_There we go. _Louisa felt her heart, one second ago large enough to encompass the world, shrunk to the size of an atom. Was she going to spend her life listening to Martin destroy the very best of moments with the very worst of questions? Who brings up the unsanitary nature of sex after just having it?

_He says he loves you through clinical medicine. _She hated clinical medicine. She wanted to push him off her, push him away, and run away, and for a second her muscles tensed, but then he kissed her forehead, and held her cheek in his massive hand, and she didn't know what she wanted.

_He says he loves you through clinical medicine_.

Bugger clinical medicine. "Say it again," Louisa urged.

This time he understood immediately. "I love you."

She ran her hand over his hair, loving its fuzzy flatness, and caressed his neck, as his hand rested on her breast. It didn't take the full sting of his sterilize comment away, but it nonetheless helped soothed her soul.

What did she want? She wanted Martin's love, this sex, those words, without the added awkwardness, without the weird comments, without his incapacity to hold a normal conversation with friends.

She heard the angel Isobel on her shoulder whisper in her ear—"_After all, someone has to sterilize the sofa. Aunt Ruth might sit there tomorrow."_

Yes, someone had to sterilize the sofa.

Martin kissed her again, and for those seconds that electric feeling on her lips turned off the endless, uncontrollable prattle of her thoughts. She kissed him right back when he was done, to extend that blessed relief a little bit longer. And she kissed him again after that.

Later in bed, as he slept in his unmoving way, Louisa watched his chest rise and fall. He loved her. She loved him. That was clear. Their compatibility in bed was clear, no, not clear, was actually quite thrilling. He was seven years older than her, yet still very potent. It seemed an "optimal nutritional diet" and some regular walking did maintain health, at least the kind of health Louisa's sex drive sincerely appreciated.

She put her hand on his chest, and watched it ascend and descend in a slow, steady manner. It was nice, this allowance to touch. To be touched back.

She lay down in the warmth of the bed, nestled next to him. It was quiet, and as she drifted off to sleep, her content feeling of life was invaded by her last thought—her recollection of Martin spraying a strong medically based antimicrobial on their sofa cushions.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

The weather forecast looked cold and bleak for the week except for a possibility of viewing the sun late Tuesday afternoon. Thus, when his last two Tuesday patients cancelled their visits, Doc Martin took the time to walk both to the Post Box, where he mailed his suit bill to Sebastian Trevenney, and then onto PC Penhale's police office, to formally report the dog attack.

He carried a plastic bag with him in which were the remnants of his previous suit.

It was cool outside, no more than 45F degrees, but the sky was half blue, half billowing clouds, and at his typical speedy walking pace, Doc Martin kept warm. Penhale's police truck was parked outside the building, given there was usually almost no reason for a constable in Port Wenn, and when Martin walked in he was not surprised to find no one else there but Penhale.

Joe was writing on a paper and looked up seeing Martin.

"Hello, Doc. What brings you here?"

"I've a crime to report."

Penhale's head jerked back to full attention. "Really? An actual crime?"

"Yes."

"Misdemeanor or felony?"

"I don't know."

Penhale excitedly got a new piece of paper arranged in front of him and asked, "What happened?"

"I was attacked by Sebastian Trevenney's three German shepherds when I was called to his house."

Penhale eyed Martin a bit suspiciously. "A dog attack? We know you're not a fan of our canine friends. Perhaps they nipped at your heels a bit?"

Martin took his torn and stained trouser, shirt and half tie out of the bag and put them on the counter separating the two of them. "They attacked me."

Penhale went through the clothes and saw the damage. "Torn, stained and bloody. I'll keep these as Exhibits A, B, and C," putting the tie, shirt and trousers in order in front of him. "No, wait, this will be A, this B, and this C," he said, switching the articles order to trousers, shirt and tie.

Martin stood still during this monologue, his teeth clenched.

Having the clothes properly categorized, Penhale asked, "Were you injured in this attack?"

"Yes. Minor injuries."

"Dangerous Dog Act covers this, amended 2010. Sounds like a 'menacing dog'. When did this happen?"

Doc Martin told him the story and Penhale wrote every detail down.

Penhale reviewed the form and said, "Definitely menacing dogs—when the dog bites any person causing injury to that person that is not in the nature of a serious injury."

Penhale was nearly a moron to Martin, but he was impressed how well the man knew the intricacies of the law.

"But, German shepherds are not a restricted breed. I'll investigate this and report back to you."

"I think the animals should be put down. They're a danger to society."

"To well-dressed society, yes, if they're trained to attack men in suits. Maybe you should wear Dockers and a cardigan next time you visit Mr. Trevenney. You know, I think you'd look good in one of those sweaters with the leather elbows."

Martin stared at Penhale, his chastising eyebrows so low they almost seemed to look like a mustache.

Penhale, continuing to fill out the police form, kept musing, "It is interesting, this attack, the opposite of your usual interaction with our canine friends. Dogs have always had an uncanny attraction to you. I've wondered if you emit some pheromone, which only dogs can smell. Some odor along the line of bacon, perhaps. Or, maybe, raw beef. You could have a dog pheromone like raw beef."

Martin, moving only to breathe, kept staring at the oblivious Penhale.

"I'll visit the Trevenney's to get their side of the story, and get back to you this week. Why don't we meet for a pint in the Crab and Lobster Friday?"

"No." Martin turned and walked away.

Penhale lifted his hand to wave good-bye, calling out, "Nice seeing you, Doc! Always love our get togethers!"

Martin left the building, feeling like he had to shower the stupidity off of him, which seemed to permeate the inside of Penhale's police station, like a thick, cloying vapor.

He cast a last look of disapproval back at the door, and then heard his name, "Martin!"

He turned, and saw a vision. Across the empty road, on the walking path along the fenced cliff, was Louisa, pushing James Henry in his buggy. She was stopped and had her arm lifted in greeting, and she smiled, widely, at him. Her face was bright and open, her brown hair pony-tailed behind her, her flowery dress standing out like a rose garden in a wasteland. The sun, soon to be covered by the approaching white and grey clouds, shone beams of light through the air, which shimmered behind Louisa's head. The active sea roiled behind her, blue grey in the afternoon, the waves leaping and foaming. The barren rocky hills of the cove enclosed the water in the bay, and framed the landscape directly around her, like a watery wrap that brought out her eyes, the flow of her skin, the white of her teeth.

It was the most gloriously picturesque image Martin had even seen. She was like a goddess of the Cliff, with the surrounding nature adoring her, highlighting her delicate grace, her winsome charm, her dazzling beauty. She seemed eternal in that spot, as if that view was created solely for her presence, for her to be there, stay there, and rule there.

It was mesmerizing.

Martin walked to her, not aware of his steps but he found himself by her, and she leaned forward and kissed his cheek, still smiling. He didn't know how to speak, and he stood there, his eyes addicted to her, not able to move off her face.

He had never really appreciated how glorious the nature views were in Port Wenn. The sea was deep, the cliffs rocky, the air windy. He had never thought or felt any more than that, even though the villagers and tourists found the landscape breathtaking. Martin had hardly understood why. He was more excited by the British Medical Journals article on proper pharmaceutical dosing of medicines for Rheumatoid Arthritis than he was staring soulfully at the Atlantic Ocean, or barren, lifeless cliffs.

But, here, now, Louisa, their child, the view, something clicked inside Martin. Something turned on, something…. He didn't know what exactly had happened.

"Fancy meeting you here," she said.

He continued to take in her, the sea, the sky, the sun, and the rays of light.

"Martin?" she asked, as Martin stood in a kind of daze.

"You're so lovely," he said. "The most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

Her mouth opened slightly in surprise. "Not really a 'thing'….", Louisa blushed and ran her hand through her hair, and then straightened her dress. "That's very kind…"

He lifted up one the corner of his lips, his typical smile, for a second. He leaned over to touch the forehead and cheeks of his wide-awake son, all bundled up against the chilly air.

She beamed. "Really, thank you," and wrapped her arm through his, using her free one to push James. "It's so nice out I called the Fenns and told Maureen I'd walk over to pick up James." She asked what he had been doing at Penhale's and Martin explained.

"You're still pursuing charges against Trevenney's dogs?"

"Yes."

"What's going to happen to them?"

"I don't know."

"Is your back all healed up?"

"Nearly, yes."

"Good. Your injuries concerned me."

Even though they walked the path, parallel to the cliff, Martin could not get that vision of Louisa out of his mind. Nor did he want to. Nor did he want to pull his arm free from hers. Nor did he mind her body leaning on his side while they walked.

They rambled back into the middle of the village and while a jaunt around the main areas would have afforded Martin one or two "Tosser" declamations, with Louisa by his side, the insults didn't appear.

"Tuesday," Martin said. "Chicken breasts, brown rice, cauliflower and broccoli."

They stopped and bought the ingredients for dinner, with Louisa attempting to surreptitiously add in a bar of Belgian dark chocolate.

Martin noticed it and said "What-?" but, shaking her head violently for a second to prevent Martin's inevitable comment at the register, his opened mouth went speechless. Her adamant head shaking won, and he didn't say a word more. By the time they climbed the hill up to their home, the invading clouds had overcome the sun, and rain drizzled down.

Later that evening, as the rain slashed against the windows, Louisa sat at her new desk and chair, delivered the day before and put together while she was at school. She prepared for her class tomorrow, as Martin sat on the sofa, reading his medical journals. James sat again beside him, buffered from the world with multiple little pillows.

"The chair is very comfortable," Louisa said, turning to look at Martin.

"If you sat up straighter, you'd have less risk of developing kyphosis."

"Kyphosis?"

"Curving of the spine which causes rounding of the back, back pain, and in some cases even difficulty breathing. The extreme example being a hunchback."

"Are you saying I look like a hunchback?"

They stared at each other. Aunt Ruth reared her head, and so did Isobel, but for a moment it seemed fruitless, their habits would always win, their issues and personality flaws would squelch any attempts to change or be new, better people, better lovers. It seemed failure was more guaranteed than success.

Martin then saw that vision from earlier that day, of Louisa, the sunlight as a halo around her, the sea and cliffs framing her in a heavenly picture, a work of art which pervaded his being, down to his bones, to the air in his lungs.

That was what he always wanted to see. It wasn't a rational thought, it wasn't from his brain, his intellect, it was what he felt, what now seemed to drive him to live, an emotion which drove his pulse.

"No," he said. He could medically define any disease, he could list off hundreds of drugs, he could lecture on what stitch was required for different surgeries, but Martin sat there, his mind lost as to what to say next. He wanted to make Louisa the SunSeaCliff Louisa again, here, in their living room, but his legendary brains seemed to be operating in reverse speed. Many words fumbled around his mind, and when he grabbed for one it sped away.

Finally, desperate, he said, "I'm sorry." It was like he was begging a firing squad in some foreign country, in a language he barely spoke, to not shoot, to instead save his life.

Louisa smiled and there she was, SunSeaCliff Louisa. His vision. And Martin knew what he had to do the rest of his life. He had to master that foreign language. He knew three phrases in it, "I love you." "You're beautiful", and "I'm sorry," and was learning when it was best to say them. He had to learn more.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen

Louisa entered Port Wenn Primary School the next day in a very good mood, even though the rain was biting, and the chill bore through her clothes. For having been raised in Port Wenn, it was true that even still one was not immune to the brutal nastiness at times of its climate. Yet, things were looking up. She had her lesson planned for the day, her students had done well on their previous assignments, no one was out sick (yet), Alison was cooking good meals, she had new ideas for stopping the Dare Club, and the new janitor/handyman was working out well.

She was not expecting the crowd of staff and teachers waiting for her in her office. She was surrounded as soon as she entered.

"Louisa," Tasha said, "Are you resigning? Moving to London with the Doc?"

Louisa realized the Board of Governance must have leaked out the information.

"I've put in my resignation, yes," Louisa said.

"That's crazy! Leaving the village, your job, your home."

"To be alone with the Doc in London!"

"You love living here, always have. You're not a city girl."

"You'll leave at half term. You won't find a good job in London in the middle of the first term. Likely not for the whole year!"

"You've friends here. You'll be stuck with him alone in London."

"Doc Martin said he'd stay for you. Make him live up to his words. Selfish bastard, wanting to drag you away from Port Wenn."

Penhale had no doubt gossiped about the events at the Castle.

"He's been here four years and hasn't made a friend! You'll be all alone in London, stuck in a flat, baby crying, while he's at hospital all day, having fun."

Someone noted the time, that they were late to their classes and the women left, filing out slowly, one turning around to say, "We'll pick this up at lunch! Don't make the biggest mistake of your life, Louisa."

The rest of the women, exiting, all agreed.

Louisa was shaken. Were they right? Was it the biggest mistake? She didn't teach until the afternoon, so she sat down and went on her computer. She hadn't really investigated jobs available in London, but found a website where she could search for Head Deputy positions, in Primary schools, a bit more leadership than solely teaching. She was pleased to see that some positions were open in the London area, which was quite encouraging, and the pay was decent, the higher grade she deserved. But, on closer look it dawned on her that all of them were looking for people to start in September, the beginning of the new school year. She'd likely spend nearly a year unemployed unless she did substitute teaching, but she'd be in contest with others wishing to do the same. It sank in. She _would_ likely be home, alone, in their flat, in London, caring for James, and with little else to do, if they moved there. Even searching for a new position, Louisa felt rather black and heavy realizing the immensity of filing out resumes, having interviews, and the crushing disappointment she'd probably experience being passed over for other candidates.

What was she doing? She had friends here, a good job, it was her home, and Martin had vowed he'd stay here, for her.

She thought of last night, when he apologized to her, and the ways he was now including her in decisions; he was trying so hard, and Louisa appreciated it so much.

It just worried her that if she said she wanted to stay, who would _really_ be the selfish bastard?

Lunch went smoothly, and since the weather was terrible, the children stayed inside and loudly amused themselves during the break. Louisa was waylaid again by a few staff.

"We've spoken with Stu MacKenzie. You know the Board wants you to stay. They'll rip up the letter and forget all about it if you say so."

"What you see in that tosser Doc, it's hard to figure."

Louisa answered, weakly, "He has his good points."

"His income, no doubt. And he can dress well. If dogs don't rip his clothes off!" The women laughed, and for once, the village gossip seemed tiresome and intrusive.

"It's not funny. The dogs scratched him badly," Louisa said.

"Right, not funny at all." The women paused a second and then burst into laughter again.

"Louisa, you love him and leave him, how many times? You two can't make it work. You're so extroverted and friendly and he's socially impaired. Can hardly get a 'Hello' out of him most times. He's got no bedside manner."

Louisa nodded her head, but inside it was the memory of that second orgasm. But, was good sex truly enough?

"He almost made my sister cry when she saw him the other day. Just because she didn't entirely stop eating the food she's allergic to and had another asthma attack. He nearly bit her head off!"

"You can't spend your life with him. He's so rude."

"You've got a place here, with us. The students love you."

In fact, when the lunch break was done, Tasha came over with a good handful of students, and they had a banner they had made, much like her "Congratulations!" banner for her wedding a little over a year ago.

This one said "WE LOVE MISS GLASSON!" and had flowers and hearts around it in a multicolor display.

Louisa had been a meek recipient to all the pressure of staying. She mumbled a sincere "Thank you" to the children, and then excused herself from her colleagues, and went back to her office, closing the door behind her, and for the first time ever, locking it.

Everything was spinning around inside her, making her feel as if she had just gotten off a carnival ride. And although she knew she belonged there, in Port Wenn, and she'd be alone in London for nearly a year, and she'd have to fight for a job there, what she mostly focused on was thinking that Carmine's sister, who Martin had yelled at, should have stopped eating the food she was allergic to.


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen

Martin's first patient after lunch was Harry Smyth. Following Martin into the consulting room, he sat down and faced a seated Martin, who was studying some papers. Harry was sixty-five years old, had lived his whole life in Port Wenn, and had been for many years the town's main boat mechanic, a trade he had learned in the navy. In a yearly blood check, Martin had uncovered elevated liver enzymes, and knowing the man's daily alcohol intake, had referred him for a liver biopsy.

"Your medical results are not good," Martin said, putting the papers down and looking at Harry. "Your biopsy shows hepatic cirrhosis."

"From the drink?" Harry asked.

"Yes, of course 'from the drink'," Martin exclaimed. "You've been a raving alcoholic for decades. You'll be dead in a year if you don't stop."

"What if I switch from whiskey to beer?"

"Idiot. You must avoid all alcohol. From all sources."

"Even wine?"

Martin rolled his eyes and looked away, sighing at the bottom of the barrel brains of his patients. "Unless you wish to die jaundiced, grotesquely swollen, vomiting up blood and demented."

Harry rubbed his chin, his short grey stubbly beard poking through his unshaven skin. "That's not so bad. Better than living without my booze."

"I can refer you to sobriety organizations—"

"-I'd rather be swollen."

Martin glared at him and pointed his head towards the door. "Go on, get out."

"Any instant cures for hangovers, Doc? "I've got a mean headache right here," Harry said, his hand cupping the back of his head.

Martin's continued silent glower got the point across and he shrugged his shoulders and left.

Martin's afternoon of seeing patients was interrupted when Morwenna knocked on his surgery door, yelled, "Emergency, Doc!" and he told her to come in.

"Just got a phone call from a nephew of Matthias Garvey. Says Matthias has been paralyzed for the past hour."

"Paralyzed?"

"Yes, half of him. I said you'd be right down."

Martin agreed this was urgent and ending his visit with his present patient, he picked up his medical bag, and opened various drawers to ensure it was fully stocked. He also grabbed his portable EKG machine with shock paddles. Putting on his coat, he told Morwenna to alert the patients in his waiting room he had to leave. With the rain slopping down all day in big drops, he got directions to Garvey's home, and drove there.

He ran to the door and pounded on it. It opened and Martin dodged inside to retreat from the rain.

"I'm here for Matthias Garvey," he said, when he saw the man resting comfortably in a chair in his living room.

It was a slightly larger house than the typically small bungalows so many inhabitants lived in. The living room was not only spacious but gained Doc Martin's immediate respect. There was a magazine of advanced crossword puzzles open on a side table and some words were filled in with a pen. There was a whole wall of bookshelves, covered with hardbound classics of many genres. Generally, if villagers felt compelled to read it was fashion magazines or tabloid newspapers.

He came to the man, around sixty years old, but with a sturdy body like the sailors tended to have in Cornwall. He still had a good head of hair, jet black, not graying at all. His face, tanned from a life in the sun, was smooth and shaven. It showed his age here being well wrinkled, especially around his lips, indicating tobacco use. And, there on the fireplace mantle was a pipe. Still, his brown eyes were keen with intelligence, and the book on the arm of his chair was by Proust.

"What's going on?" Doc Martin asked.

"He hasn't been able to use his left arm for the last hour, and his left eye got all saggy," a young man said, tall and lean, with his hands in his pockets. Martin noticed his twin brother standing close by him.

"I can move it now. They shouldn't have called you," Matthias said.

"Yes, they should've. What happened?"

Matthias explained the sudden loss of movement in his left arm and his left face sagging along his lip and eye. First time it had ever happened. But, he was getting all the movement back.

Martin took out his cell phone and flipped it open.

"I'm not going in any ambulance," Garvey said.

"Yes, you are. You need a full work-up, including MRI."

"Doctor Ellingham, I'm one of those cantankerous old geezers who drive you crazy, and refuse standard medical care. I'm sorry about that. But, it's my nature."

Once a year someone called him by his favorite title, and when it happened, the person gained a little good grace in Martin's innate attitude of pretty much loathing all his patients. Martin said, "You probably had a transient ischemic attack, a little stroke. You should be in hospital."

"I admit I need the work-up. I'm just refusing to get it. Please, put the phone down and let's you and I work things out. You're just as cantankerous a physician as I am a sailor. Let's see if we can muddle through this on our own."

"This is ludicrous. You could have a serious problem developing."

"So much of life is ludicrous, eh? You can chart that your patient was refractory to common sense. We're not Americans. I won't sue you if something goes wrong."

The literate nature of the discussion, and the man's acknowledgement that Martin was right calmed him down, although Martin was still highly dissatisfied at his patient's erroneous decision. Nonetheless, Martin spent some time asking questions about his general health, his medications, and his lifestyle.

"I smoke a pipe, have for decades. Call me a traitor but I prefer a US tobacco, Eastern Shoreman Hunt blend. I know you don't care. They told me I had hypertension years ago, but I stopped taking the pill as my wife was still alive and it interfered with our relations. When she died, I never bothered trying it again."

He drank with his sailing friends in the pub now and then, but preferred a little fine malt whiskey or port at home, a few times a week.

"Heard you like some fine malt yourself. Got an Aberfeldy, 21 year old one, if you'd like a shot."

That was expensive malt whiskey. His fishing profit must have been exceptional that year.

"No." After more questions and a comprehensive cardiovascular and neurological physical exam, and an EKG, Martin put his medical equipment down and drew several vials of blood.

"I'm correct and sure you had a TIA. You're hypertensive and need medication. And, an aspirin a day. You have an increased risk of having a stroke within the next month. Stop smoking, eat right and get some exercise. I'll refer you to a cardiologist in Truro for a full work-up."

"Nah, I'd rather stay with you. I can't imagine any physician is better than you are. You're got a reputation, you know."

Martin eyed him dubiously.

Matthias lifted his arm up. "Seems to be all better." He touched his face, "How does it look?"

"Ugly as can be," one of his nephews called out.

"My nephews, Tweedle-dee and Tweedle-dum, errant sons of my divorcing brother. He's too stressed out to deal with them so sent them to me for the summer." He spoke to the two, "Go on, get out, you bone idle brats. Get back to the garage. The Peugeot still isn't fixed. Make use of those trading school classes."

"You alright, Uncle Matt?" one asked.

"Of course, I am." He nodded to Martin. "Best doctor in England." When the young men left, he added, "They're not that bad. Just unfocused. And one of those weird twin sets wholly attached to each other."

Martin was writing out a prescription on his pad. "Get this to the chemist and have it filled. Take one per day to lower your blood pressure. I need to see you in my surgery on Monday, to check it. We'll go over your blood results then." He pointed to the pipe on the mantle, "Throw that out. Smoking is a leading risk factor for atherosclerosis, which is the most common cause of ischemic diseases…." Martin's voice trailed off as he noticed a clock on the far end of the mantle.

"Doctor Ellingham?"

Martin stood up and went over to the clock. It was a square gilt clock, medium sized, on an inlaid base. There was a small round clock face in the middle of the clock, with snakes engraved on the gold climbing up both sides of the clock face. At the top was a three mast sailing ship, held to the clock itself by a rod through the bottom of the ship, which was slightly tilted to the side.

Martin turned back to Matthias, "This is a French automaton rocking ship mantel clock."

"I suppose it is. I joined the Merchant's Marine when I was young and spent many years sailing everywhere. I picked up a few souvenirs along the way."

Martin bent over the ship, and then turned it around. "TC Cailly. Dates the clock around 1820." He put it down very delicately. "Does it run?"

"Nope. Never has. I took it to a couple of clock repair shops years ago, and was told only a master clock fixer could bring it back to life, but it would cost a lot of money. Too much for this old miser, though I was also told it was worth a lot if it did work."

"Yes."

"Really?"

"Around 7,000 pounds."

Matthias whistled, and pointed at his mouth. "Oy, I can whistle. You're a miracle worker, Doctor Ellingham. Couldn't do that an hour ago."

"Um, if you like, I can look at the clock."

"You repair clocks as well as people, eh?"

"Yes."

"How much will it cost me?"

"Nothing."

"Oh, for free? It's a challenge, then, eh?"

"Yes."

"Have at it, then. Thanks for the home visit. I'll see you Monday."

"Call Morwenna for an appointment. If you have a recurrence of symptoms, or any that worsen—"

"—I'll call my GP. Cheers, Doctor Ellingham."

Martin gave Matthias his cell phone number and then wrapped up the clock in a plastic bag to protect it from the rain. It was quite a downpour as he strode quickly to his car; that was typical though bothersome for autumn in Port Wenn. What wasn't typical was that Martin found himself looking forward to seeing Matthias Garvey on Monday.

Later that evening, after supper, while Louisa did her preparatory work for the next day at school, at her new desk, which she loved, Martin went into his surgery, laid out his clock fixing tools, and put the French clock on his desk. He lost sense of time as he analyzed the outside of the clock, and then began taking it apart, bit by bit, studying each of part and automatically memorizing where it belonged in the mechanism. He had a big, old manual, with well-used pages, some wrinkled and torn, from his early years of fixing clocks, and he had reviewed the little information written about automaton clocks. He was basically on his own, but Martin was confident in his abilities. He had the meticulous focus, the experience of nearly four decades of working on every type of watch and clock, an ill-defined intuitive feeling, and the simple fact that he liked working on clocks and found it relaxing to aid his repair.

After some time passed, Louisa peaked her head into the Surgery. "Oh, there you are."

Martin looked up at her, holding a small internal spring.

Louisa walked in, "You're back to working on clocks?"

"Yes."

"Are you having shops send them to you again?"

"No. This is a patient's clock."

"A patient's?"

Martin told her about getting it from Matthias Garvey, and upon more questions from Louisa did not mention his exact medical condition but noted he had refused to go to hospital as recommended.

Louisa summarized the information to sweep away her confusion. "You're fixing Matthias' clock for free, after he refused your recommendations to go to hospital and get a further medical work-up?"

"Yes."

"Don't you usually despise patients who do that, and yell at them as they dash out the Surgery?"

Martin didn't answer.

"So, can I assume you liked Matthias? And want to help him out?"

"I want to fix his clock. The French automaton clocks are extremely difficult to repair."

"Uh-huh. It is unusual, though."

Martin didn't respond.

"I still wonder if you like Matthias."

Martin still didn't respond.

"God forbid, eh?" He saw her smile, and The Vision came into his mind; that smile, the sun, the sea. So beautiful. What he always wanted to see. He didn't know what to say to extend that smile, and struggled to find those words

"He's coming for an appointment on Monday," Martin said.

"Okay…" Louisa said, confused by his tangential statement to their conversation. Don't' stay up too late."

"Yes."

Louisa went upstairs. She didn't know Matthias Garvey very well. His children had moved out of the village so she didn't have his grandchildren in the Primary, and she had never really had much contact with him and his wife. She knew where he lived but had never been in his home, and hadn't been close enough to the family to attend the funeral of his wife, who had died a few years ago. Didn't he read a lot, intellectual things? He wasn't a regular at the pub. He was a little older than Martin but it would be nice, if they could be friends, and if Martin could thus find some value in Port Wenn. Then he could show her co-workers and the town as a whole he could fit in.


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter Sixteen

On Thursday morning, while eating breakfast, Martin asked Louisa, "Have you thought about what you wish to spontaneously eat for supper tonight?"

Louisa looked up from her cereal bowl. "You realize that's not quite the point, right?"

"We have to eat supper."

"Yes, but spontaneity means you just, on the moment…like we did, the other night…" She saw him with his head slightly tilted, his natural pose when not quite comprehending the situation.

She sighed. "Um…how about spaghetti and meatballs."

Martin could not keep his lips from distorting, showing his grave distaste of that idea. He said, "Pasta is a source of excessive carbohydrate intake—"

"—And what's the problem with that?"

"It's easy to gain central abdominal weight…"

"I think I can eat a plate of pasta without winding up obese," Louisa said.

He flashed back to Aunt Ruth, and he saw the frown deepening on her face…. "Spaghetti and meatballs are fine."

Louisa nodded her head slowly. _Don't over-react. Have a sense of humor. _"Okay. Good."

"Good."

It was an oddly kinetic energy shooting between them for a second, and they both felt a little dizzy and unbalanced, but then they righted themselves and came back to the reality of their kitchen, of them simply eating breakfast, of a day just getting started.

Somewhere, somehow, something felt good in each of them, but they didn't know what part exactly felt that way.


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter Seventeen

The rest of the week passed quickly for Martin and slowly for Louisa. Louisa could not escape the comments, some overt, some under the breath of her fellow staff and teachers about her idiocy in going to London with Martin, and her need to force him to stay in town, where at least she would be happy, and who the hell cared if he was?

Louisa meekly ignored the opinions, but she found herself wavering terribly, and hated her susceptibility to the mind of the masses. She felt a very first inkling that perhaps the village voice was not always accurate, that perhaps for the first time in her life, she needed to step aside from what seemed to be a mob mentality. Only, that thought gave her a persistent headache, as that mob consisted of her friends, the people she liked and had relied on her whole life.

But, she loved Martin Ellingham. And, Martin loved her. It was like the left side of her heart beat for her friends, and the right side of her heart beat for Martin. She felt like she was suffocating, as if the blood pouring through that divided a heart no longer could carry life giving oxygen to her cells.

It all darkened her mood considerably and finally, by late Friday afternoon, she hardly wanted to leave her office during the day, venturing out only when she had to teach or address any problem.

Pippa Woodley pulled her aside at the end of school on Friday, as she was packing up to go home.

"Oh, no, not now, PIppa," Louisa said, her mood dragging on the floor.

"Mum's the word on all this Martin stuff," Pippa said. "Let's just go out tomorrow and drink a little wine and remember good times. Have a laugh. What do you say?"

The words floated like into her like a moth, flittering through her with a fine and delicate touch. "Yes, that would be lovely."

On Saturday, Louisa went out in the early afternoon with Pippa, leaving James Henry with Martin. He read James Henry the rest of the latest British Medical Journal, discussing with his son his opinion on some of the studies conclusions and their application in clinical care. He then put the infant, sleeping in his buggy in his Surgery while he continued working on Garvey's clock. It was progressing slowly, but Martin was understanding the parts more, and figuring out the precise methodology for working on the mechanisms.

He heard the doorbell ring, and put his file down on the cloth as he stood. He opened the door to the chill rain drizzling down, and saw Peter Cronk, holding an umbrella over his head, and wearing his rucksack.

Martin looked down at him, "Yes?"

Peter Cronk shuffled his feet in his discomfort, and then said, "I've taken up chess. Mum thought you probably played it, and might give me some pointers. She sent me over to ask. Do you want to play a game or two? I could use some help on chess tactics."

Martin stared down at Peter, frozen, as if he was suddenly in a seizure with his eyes open. But, what he was actually seeing was Louisa by the sea. Although his hand wanted to close the door and his mouth wanted to say "No", something in his heart over-rode those impulses, those instincts, and without really knowing how or why, being driven not by the present, but by a memory and the hope of a future, Martin said, "Yes, come in."

Peter nodded once, "Yeah, I thought so. Sorry to bother you." He turned around and took a few steps away. He stopped, then, and paused, and turned around. "What did you say?"

"Come in," Martin said, moving to the side to allow his passage into the house.

Peter's eyes widened and he dashed inside. "Thanks, Doc," he said, shaking his umbrella outside. "Just wondering, are you delirious?"

"No."

"Demented?"

"No."

"Alien life force taken over your body?"

"What?"

"Probably not. Well, where are we playing? I've got a chess set in my rucksack. Your consulting room?"

"The kitchen." He directed Peter down the hallway to the table, retrieved his son from the consulting room and rolled the buggy into the kitchen, lifting James out to lie in his little basket on the table. Peter shed his wet clothes, and set up the chess set.

"Hello, James Henry," he said, to the infant, gently poking him in the stomach, under Martin's scrutinizing eyes. Peter then focused on putting the pieces on the board. He asked, "Do you want to be black or white?"

"I don't care."

"Do you think I should use classical or hypermodern strategic defense? I'm also a bit confused about pawn structure, how to push the pawn skeleton forward without over stretching. Also, I'm confused about defending my pieces but not engaging in Aron Nimzowitsch's concerns of over-protection."

Martin grunted in response.

They played three games without much back and forth dialogue, Martin ignoring Peter's frequent questions of his moves. Peter finally stopped asking and after Martin declared, "Checkmate", the third time, Peter moped, with his head resting on his palm, "This is fun."

"You enjoy losing?"

"No. I meant it _wasn't_ fun. What's the point of beating me so many times, without any instruction?"

"I needed to study how you played to discern your weaknesses."

Peter picked up hearing that. "Ah, a method in your madness. Brilliant. So, what did you figure out?"

"You have many weaknesses."

"Such as?"

"Your pawn structure is inadequate and you overprotect your minor pieces putting your major pieces at risk. You need to learn to fianchetto a bishop. You lead with your rooks, against Tarrasch's rule stating rooks are strongest in the background."

"Only that? Nothing else?"

"You castle your king too late in the middle game. Your opening is weak and predictive. You only think one or two steps ahead. In the endgame you are too timid with your king. You-."

"—Right, right, I get it."

Martin stopped.

"Doesn't seem to difficult. Fix those up and should be easy, then, to be a chess grandmaster."

"It won't be easy."

Peter sighed. "I've got a lot to learn. Recommend any books?"

"Start with chess openings or tactics."

Peter packed up the chess set. "I've read a few. I'll get some more. Um, do you think that, maybe, we can play another game or two next Saturday?"

"I may have patients to see."

"Yes, but if you don't, can I come over again?"

Martin didn't respond for a few seconds, and then said, "Yes."

"Are you _sure_ you aren't ill? You're not acting…normal."

"I'm not ill."

"Well, thanks, then, Doc. I appreciate your help."

Louisa came in the kitchen door then, as Peter was putting his raincoat back on.

"Hello, Miss Glasson," Peter said.

"Peter, hello. What are you doing here? Are you ill?"

"Nope. Just playing some chess with your Doc."

"Playing chess?" She turned and looked at Martin, who had a cup in hand and was bent over making an espresso coffee.

"Yup. The Doc gave me some advice for improving. I'm coming over again next week for a second round."

He pulled Louisa closer and whispered in her ear, "Is he doing okay? He's acting very strange."

"I can hear that," Martin said, standing back up and sipping on his coffee.

"He's fine, Peter. See you at school on Monday," Louisa answered, opening up the kitchen door. Peter opened his umbrella, waved, and took off for home.

Louisa turned around to Martin, and she grinned. "_Are_ you okay? You are acting strange."

"I'm fine."

She came up to him. "That was very sweet of you, playing chess with Peter."

Martin watched her hand as it slid up his chest, nestled the side of his face, and then reached for his neck, gently pulling his head towards her, and she kissed him. He stiffened for a second, and then he melted into her. He brought his arms around her torso, and hugged her close to him and it was even better when she did the same.

"Positive feedback," she murmured, when they finally broke.

"Hmm," he answered, and they began to kiss again, and he had a spontaneous idea to lift her onto the kitchen table, when James Henry, waking from his long afternoon sleep began to cry. She pulled away, slowly, and sighed, "I better feed him."

She enjoyed moving away from Martin, feeling his eyes following her, and not knowing if she actually felt or was imagining the heat of his sexual desire expanding from his body to emanate off and warm her back. That warmth, which surrounded her, both comforted and aroused her.

She picked up James and sat down on the sofa in the living room and breastfed him. Smelling his diaper, she went upstairs and changed him. She came back down carrying James and Martin was in his Surgery, putting away his tools and putting Garvey's clock on a table against the wall, by the window out of the way of his dealing with patients.

"How's the clock repair going?" she asked.

"Good. Where are we eating out tonight?"

"Let's just stay home," she smiled. She had had a nice time with Pippa, their conversation being completely Martin-free. They gossiped, chatted about celebrities and the royals, remembered funny incidents in Port Wenn, and had two glasses of wine. It was a good balance, a lot of laughing and sharing, in that easy, comfortable, silly way in which two friends connect. Now, though, being home with Martin, calmer, quieter, not only felt appropriate, but felt good,. She liked The Martin who fixed a clock for free. The Martin who played chess with Peter Cronk. She wanted to be with him.

"I thought we ate out on Saturday," Martin said.

"Well, yes, we did decide that."

"To formally regulate our supper schedule."

"I know, Martin. I know. I just want to stay home, alone, with you."

Her words recalled another sentence she had said, very much like that, in the kitchen, not too many weeks ago, when he had thought she had been complaining about being home alone with him. It had been like a knife in his heart and had struck him dumb at the time. He was struck dumb again, but this time because his heart swelled so much it seemed to press against his larynx.

"What do you think?" Louisa asked.

"If you wish."

"I do. I was out with Pippa today. That's enough. Do you mind that I want to stay home?"

"No."

"We can probably scrounge up some food."

Martin grew silent and he gazed at her from foot to top of head, having his vision settle on her dark brown eyes. They sparkled like they had standing on the cliff.

He realized he would do anything for those eyes. "Yes," he said, once again losing his hand in her hair.

"Yes," she repeated, smiling. And it seemed that in that one word they were talking much more than about food.


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter Eighteen

Harry Smythe had been a good mechanic, though a better alcoholic. The skills at his trade had brought him pretty much the trust of all the fishing men in the village, and he had been the main boat mechanic for more than two decades in Port Wenn and the surrounding villages. He could tease out clanking, clinking, shuddering, spluttering, dead engines; anything a boat could wear out or break, Harry could find and fix.

The only thing he excelled at more than his work was his craving to drink. That need had chased away his wife, and his kids, although he did talk to them occasionally. He had, simply, loved his booze more than his family. And, now, he learned it had chased away his health, as well.

It seemed a lonely life for Harry, working and then drinking at the pub or at home, and doing nearly nothing else. But, what people didn't understand was that booze was Harry's best friend, his closest associate, his best mate. There was nothing on the planet Harry could rely on for constant companionship as much as alcohol; everything about it was familiar, and safe. He knew all the effects of it; all the nuanced ways the booze crept into his mind, his body. No one knew him like booze. No one helped him as much. No one asked for anything from him. And no one consoled him as much. He didn't even know, really, what needed to be consoled, but from his first drink at age eleven, Harry had known he held his true love in that bottle, and nothing, ever, in competition for his love, could overshadow the booze. It was impossible to stop drinking. If he woke up, he would drink. Life was that simple, and it could never, ever change.

Harry had spent the last couple of days looking at Garvey's boat, anchored in the bay, doing a little tune-up as it had been having problems starting up and stalling out a bit. He had found the well-used boat needing attention and requiring various replacements and parts; a new air filter, and new ignitions lead. He had found something much more pertinent today, though, before the crashing rain had chased even him back home.

Harry found Garvey's fuel pump was leaking, and that was probably going to worsen in the next weeks and wind up being very dangerous. Leaking gas was a recipe for faulty engine failure and being stranded on the sea, and, the mixture of a flammable gasoline with an ignition spark was very dangerous.

It was late, though, and Harry was tired. Maybe it was the cirrhosis, whatever actually that was, but he just didn't have his energy like he used to. Harry skipped making supper, which was common, as he had liquid nourishment in his cheap whiskey. Harry didn't care about the flavor; he needed the friendship.

He drank five straight shots and the camaraderie began. He felt relaxed and tired in a familiar way, a comforted way, like a sick child wrapped in his grandmother's quilt. One the sixth shot, he realized he should write down on Garvey's bill receipt-where he listed hours he worked and parts replaced-to replace fuel pump, which would help him remember to call Garvey the next day to get it approved. Harry wrote "Need Fuel Pump" on the receipt and stuffed it in his trouser pocket. Swallowing his seventh shot, and emptying the bottle, Harry stood up to get a fresh one from the kitchen. The room spun, as it had spun a million times in the past, but this time when Harvey stumbled and fell, as he had stumbled and fallen innumerable times, the side of his head hit the edge of the first step of his landing. Harry's head bounced up and then smacked on the floor, blood spilling out from the wound, and his body began seizing. After a minute or two, the seizing stopped and Harry Smythe, never regaining consciousness, died a few hours later. The only witness was his whiskey bottle friend, empty, upright, straight and unwavering on the table.

It had finally brought him an eternal peace.


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter Nineteen

Matthias Garvey supposed he loved his only sibling, his brother Eddie, a salesman by nature, but the poor sot had let his bad business decisions and wandering, intermittently adulterous eye get in the way of his marriage, and to his regret that was ending. His wife, Lori, had moved out to her sisters. Eddie's sons Clinton and Clyde, eighteen going on fourteen, were slothful and inattentive, but overall decent, rather harmless lads. They had come to uncle Matt to allow Eddie some balance in his life with all the financial stresses, and with his ineffective efforts to win his soon to be ex back. Matthias had had a lovely marriage and raised three strong kids, two sons, doing well, and a daughter. All themselves married with children, but they had all left Port Wenn, none interested in fishing with their dad or the small village life. They had wanted more opportunities, and all three garnered University degrees, which had led the way to fulfilling careers. Garvey spoke to his children once a week, and saw them for holidays. In the summer one or more of children and grandchildren would come visit with his family, or more rarely, he would sojourn to them. He lived alone most of the time, but was not a lonely man. He had his books, his crossword puzzles, his music, his thoughts, his fishing, and his family.

Garvey had always been attracted to the sea. He had started out with the Merchant Navy forty-five years ago. He had been one of the last of those allowed to join a company with no experience, but as a result of being friends with the son of a Merchant Navy company accountant. He'd done well, become an uncertificated second mate and spent ten contented years on merchant ships. When he left the big ships, he met his wife at a party in Lancaster. She was from Bude, and they fell in love quickly. He settled with her in Port Wenn, buying his small fishing boat and having a happy life.

He loved the water, and he loved his little fishing boat. He had made a decent living at it, invested his savings well, and looked forward to a comfortable and prudent retirement in another ten years.

He didn't mind helping out his nephews; he liked them and if he could bring some stability into their lives, even for a short time, he was happy to do so. He would take his nephews out on the ocean and show them how it was to be a fisherman. Perhaps they'd enjoy it.

Garvey found them playing some video game in the living room; some soldiers fighting off what appeared to be very large, muscular, armed aliens. They were the tallest of the Garveys, nearly six feet tall, and had thick dark brown hair, and dark brown eyes. Their faces were too angular to be handsome, though, and their noses too pug-like. Cliff parted his hair on the left, and Clyde on the right; that was the key to telling them apart.

"Ever do anything substantial with your brains?" Garvey asked, coming up to them, smoking his pipe.

"There's strategy with stalking the aliens," Clyde said.

"Ah, bugger!" Clifton called out.

"Killed again?" Clyde said, shaking his head. "You've got to watch out for those acid guns. You've only got one life left."

Clifton gripped his lips tightly and began playing again.

Clyde suddenly bent over in a cramp. "Ah, gotta use the toilet".

Garvey and Clifton watched him run for the rest room.

Garvey said, "Still living on the laxatives, eh?"

"He don't hardly crap without them. That IBS is hard on him."

When Clyde came back, Garvey said, "I've got the idea to take both of you out on my boat, and show you how to do some fishing."

"No, thanks, Uncle Matt," Clifton said. "We're fine here. Got ya!"

Garvey noted his nephew's exuberance at killing animated

creatures. "It wasn't a suggestion. It's a decision. I can't watch you vaporize all your brain cells. And, you might like it, being on the water, catching some fish, seeing what I've been doing for the last thirty years of my life."

"Isn't fishing smelly?" Clifton asked.

"You'd think so," Clyde said.

"I mean, fish themselves smell."

"Good smell when fish and chips."

"Can we pull them from the sea all fried and ready to eat, Uncle Matt?"

His nephews snorted in concert.

"No, but the mackerals come packed in cans," Garvey said.

Clifton warned Clyde, "Watch out, behind you!"

Clyde, "Got it!"

Clift added, "It's been raining a lot. Do you go out then?"

"Unless it's pouring down, we fish in the rain. Here's the schedule-I've been having the engine tuned up, so I'm going to Harry Smythe's to see what's going on with it, and then I have a doctor's appointment. If all is well on both accounts, we'll go out this afternoon. Still got maybe two more months to fish."

Really? In this weather? You weren't joking."

"Nope. Fish are out in rain, you know. They're wet in any weather."

"Bloody fish!" Clyde said and he and his twin laughed again.

"Keep melting your brains until I return. If you want, I've got some new crossword puzzle books-"

"Nah," they both said together.

Garvey sighed and left them. Garvey knew it was common that youth liked mindless technology over stimulating their own thought processes. Apparently curiosity and the desire to learn had not developed in his nephews, at least yet. They were young, and immature, and caught up in their parent's nasty divorce. Clyde had stomach pains from it, and Cliff got headaches. Garvey knew they didn't need to be judged by him at this time.

He walked through the wind, blowing sheets of rain which fell at strict angles against him and the buildings he passed. Harry lived a bit across town from him, opposite the way to Doc Martin, so he was pleased he'd get in some walking today. He didn't like exercise, never had, and figured his job kept him active enough. Of course, the two stones extra he carried might not be proof of that.

Garvey was one of the sailors who didn't know much about engines and such. You'd think he would, and he could figure out some minor basic problems. But, with Harry Smythe in town, master of mechanics and reasonably priced, it seemed easiest to leave the complicated engine analyses to him, and to get the engine tuned up every year. It had not had the oomph it usually did, so having Harry check it out seemed best. The man was a bloody sot, true, but never once had his expertise and detailed work been derailed due to the booze. He always did a good job. He'd worked on Garvey's boat for twenty years and Garvey had learned to depend on him to keep his craft going.

Garvey got to Harry's house and knocked on the door. There being no answer, Garvey tried the front door, which was unlocked and entered the house. It didn't take long to see Harry lying in a heap by the stairs, and Garvey stood with jaw slackened at the dried blood lying like a dark red target around Harry's head.

He'd never had to do that before in real life, but he knelt down and felt for the man's carotids, like he had seen done on the telly. Harry's neck was cold, his body stiff, and there was no pulse that he could discern. Garvey, who did not own a cell phone, picked up Harry's phone and called Doctor Ellingham. A very quick conversation ensued and Martin was there within ten minutes.

Martin's physical exam proved the same; Harry was dead. People gathered now outside Harry's home, wondering what had happened. Death had come to Port Wenn many times in the past, but mortality struck the inhabitants like it did everyone, with a certain questioning solemnity. Except for one of them. Martin had no qualms about his death—the empty whiskey bottle handed him his answers.

The ambulance packed up Harry on a gurney to take him to Truro's morgue where his family, living in Birmingham, would be tracked down and given the tragic news.

"A sad affair, Doctor," Garvey said, as the covered body was wheeled passed them.

"It's not sad. Stumbling drunk to your death is idiocy."

"That, too," Garvey agreed.

PC Penhale was there with his ever ready notepad out to gather clues. "Is there any sign this could have been murder, Doc? Some old enemy coming to take revenge?"

"No."

"Maybe I should study the room for evidence."

Martin didn't answer and walked away.

"I'll let you know if I find anything!" Penhale said.

At Truro morgue, Harry's clothes and items were packed up and sent with his body to Birmingham, where Harry's eldest son lived, who had loved him even though he knew he came in second place, as his mother and siblings had, to his dad's alcohol. Even still, he wanted his father to be buried in Birmingham, where maybe once or twice a year he'd visit his grave.

A month or so after the funeral, the son, going through his father's last items, would find the bill to a Matthias Garvey with the scribbled note about getting a fuel pump. Having been raised in Port Wenn and knowing boats himself, and the importance of fuel pumps, the son would call the local Policeman's office, get the address of Matthias Garvey, and post the bill down to him, to let him know the part his father thought Mr. Garvey needed to replace.

It was good-hearted, but would be weeks too late.


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter Twenty

Martin had returned to his Surgery, and his waiting patients, once Harry's body had been taken away, but Garvey had stayed behind, like many others, to discuss Harry, and the booze, and the abrupt ending of his life. He noticed the time on his wristwatch and wanting to be punctual, a trait he held in high esteem, he hurried up to the Surgery.

"Hello, Morwenna," he said as he came inside. There were already two patients there before him. "Doctor Ellingham running late?"

"A little. Garvey's death and all. Right now he's cutting out a mole for a biopsy, but didn't need my help. Shouldn't be too much longer."

Garvey had stuck a crossword puzzle in the deep pocket of his raincoat, so he shrugged, took it out, sat and down and got to work. A couple of minutes later Martin came out with a patient behind him.

"We'll know the results in a week. Schedule a follow-up with Morwenna, and I'll take the stitches out then."

"Can I have a pain med, Doc? Some Tramadol, maybe."

Martin put the vial down on Morwenna's desk, and said, "Get this to the path lab," and then turned, a large frown on his face. "No."

"But, it hurts. I've got a low tolerance to pain."

Martin rolled his lip in disdain as he put the patient's chart notes in the file cabinet. "It doesn't hurt."

"It does. It stings."

"Go away. Next!"

He took the small folder of chart notes from Morwenna, and strode back to his consulting room, deftly bending his head to not hit the doorway. A middle-aged overweight woman followed him, both her hands clutched to her handbag.

"It stings," the man repeated to Morwenna.

"Take a Paracetamol," she said. After he "Tsk'd from the lack of sympathy and woefully dragged himself outside, she mumbled to herself, "Or you could grow a couple."

After the middle-aged woman was referred for an abdominal ultrasound and told to avoid eating fats, and the young woman was given a prescription for iron pills, and a suggestion to give up her vegetarian diet, Martin took the notes from Morwenna, turned and saw Garvey, and motioned for him to come into the room.

Garvey sat down in the chair and said, "Quite a little display of the varieties of humanity in a doctor's office, isn't it, Doctor Ellingham?"

Martin took out the small papers making up Garvey's rather sparse medical history. He looked up and asked, "Are you taking the hypertensive medication, and the aspirin?"

"As directed."

"Any return or new symptoms?"

"No."

"Stopped smoking?"

"Well, there you're going to yell at me."

Martin put his pen down. "If you keep smoking, your risk of suffering a full stroke is very high."

"I know, Doctor, I know. I have cut back; just one pipe a day. It's a bad addiction."

Martin settled down and nodded his head. "Keep cutting back."

Martin explained the lab results and mentioned Garvey would need medication to lower his lipids. He handed Garvey the new prescription.

"One gets old and gets on drugs," Garvey said, folding the paper in half. "You know, I've upped my vegetables and am going to walk around the village everyday. I know you promote exercise."

Martin studied Garvey, wondering if this was a joke or not. Someone being so compliant to his recommendations was fairly rare in the village. "Good."

"I mean, I'm still sorry I didn't want to go to hospital, but I want to follow your advice. I don't want to get a stroke."

They finished the intake and then Martin did a little physical exam. He sat back down behind his desk. "Your blood pressure is better. Keep on all the medicines."

"As you say."

"You should still have the full cardiology work-up. And lose some weight."

"How about I work on both after fishing season ends in a couple of months. Is that okay?"

"No."

"Doctor, bass season is coming up and that's good for me financially each year. I've got a special sense with bass. I lead the village in catching them. I'll take the medications, eat better, get a walk in everyday, and see the cardiologist in two months. How's that for compromising?"

Martin capped his fountain pen. "I don't compromise with patients' health. I want to see you next month."

"Alright. Doctor, I have three questions."

Martin sat silently.

"First, how's the clock?" Garvey nodded to the disemboweled clock on the table by the window. "Doesn't look so good."

Martin answered, "It's coming along. It's quite complicated."

"But, you're up to it."

"Yes."

"Good." Garvey waved his puzzle magazine at Martin. "Second, what is an twelve letter word for 'relating to spaces in between tissues'"?

Martin's irritation flared. "I don't have time-"

"-Come on," Garvey smiled. "I'm assuming you know it."

"That's not the point-." Martin stood up, indicating the visit was over.

"—Just one clue. Come on."

"Interstitial."

"Ah, perfect." He wrote it in the spaces.

"Please leave."

Garvey stood up. "Last, what are you doing this Thursday night?"

Martin opened his consulting room door, "Good-bye."

Garvey stood by it. "I know. I know. You don't chat with patients. Bloody waste of time. Annoying prats the whole lot of them. I sincerely agree, trust me. Nonetheless, come to Roger Fenn's Thursday at 7 pm."

"Why?"

"For bridge. Roger called me up after a play date—never thought I'd hear your name and 'play date' in the same sentence, Doctor-and wanted to put a foursome together. We play now and then. Small world, eh? I'm a decent player, so is Roger. I chatted up Douglas Lefford, of Padstow, friend of mine, history professor. We'll have a foursome."

"No." Martin said, a living embodiment of social rejection.

"Doug's a Platinum Life Master. Won a Silver Plate in 2003. Good chance he's better than you."

Martin kept his hand on the knob, his ego showing through as his narrowed eyes displayed his disbelief.

Garvey leaned closer. "Intriguing, hmm? Just you, me, Roger and Douglas. No spying eyes. A quiet night of bridge. No chatting, just cards. What do you say? You won't meet someone as bloody good as Douglas that often."

Martin scanned the remaining patients in his waiting room. "I'll think about it."

"Good. Let us know by Wednesday. Doug doesn't want to make the drive if there's not a table."

Martin nodded.

As Garvey passed Martin, he added, "You know, you're not the tosser everyone says you are. I mean, you're not Santa Claus, but you take your care of your patients seriously. I respect you for being true to your self and not catering to the common man." He held out his hand to shake Martin's. "Thanks for your care, Doctor Ellingham."

Martin's arms constricted against his side, refusing to move, but then he felt his right arm loosened up on its own, and he shook Garvey's hand, warily, and without enjoyment.

Garvey left.

Roger Fenn. Matthias Garvey. Odd that weeks before Martin was leaving, he was having more contact with the one or two people he didn't loathe as much as everyone else who surrounded him in Port Wenn.

He brashly called out for his next patient.


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter Twenty-One

PC Penhale came over to the surgery at the end of the day and Morwenna directed him to the kitchen, where Martin was getting an afternoon pick me up espresso.

"Ah, Doc, nice day, isn't it?"

"It's been raining all day."

"But that keeps the air fresh, doesn't it?"

"No."

"Policemen like the rain as it keeps the criminals inside."

"What criminals?"

"Well, a dog attack for one. I've come to follow-up regarding your complaint."

Martin stood sipping his coffee, waiting for Penhale to continue.

"I've heard your espressos are the best coffee in town."

"Yes," Martin said. "What did Trevenney say?"

PC Joe Penhale was not that intelligent, but he was indubitably a pleasant individual, and a fairly good cop. His most admirable trait, though, was his resilience. Time after time Martin had knocked down his hopes for friendship and camaraderie and Penhale still saw the lining in the clouds, still had hope and saw the glass half full.

"Coffee can keep me up at night, anyway." Penhale flipped open his little notebook. "I interrogated Sebastian Trevenney at his home. He pleaded guilty to the charge of dangerous dog act, that his dogs did indeed attack you without provocation except that you wore a suit." Penhale took an envelope out of his pocket. "He's paid your bill in full."

Martin took the envelope, opened it up and saw a check for the full amount he had billed the man.

"When are you putting the dogs down?" Martin asked.

Penhale flipped closed his notepad. "Ah, well, in my skillful mediation of the problem, the alleged offender—"

"—He's not alleged. He admitted his guilt."

"Right. The _actual_ offender had an idea I think might satisfy all involved, without having to kill the dogs."

Martin stared at him.

Penhale leaned forward, "Do you want to hear it?"

Martin continued to stare.

"I can sense you do. Policemen develop an instinct that way. Trevenney is going to work with his son to untrain the dogs to attack men in suits. That way, when you show up there again, they'll be the friendly little canines you want them to be."

"I'm not going back there."

"But, doesn't that work out for everyone? I think my negotiating skills were quite well tested in this situation. Trevenney pays the bill, the dogs won't attack suited individuals, you stay away from them, anyway. Seems a good job all around."

With a grunt, Martin walked out of the kitchen, back towards his surgery.

"I'm glad you're happy with the results!" Penhale yelled after him.


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter Twenty-Two

During dinner that night, as per the culinary calendar, Martin told Louisa about the offer to play bridge.

"That's lovely, Martin. Are you going to play?"

It came out instantaneously, an instinct so inbred in Martin it seemed as thoughtlessly automatic as breathing. "No."

Louisa put her utensils down and said with exasperation, "Why not? If you could play bridge when you were seventeen, why not now? Why do you always have this reflex to say 'No'? You played chess with Peter Cronk and survived. You'd survive this and maybe, just maybe, enjoy it. I don't understand why you just can't _do_ it!"

Martin could yell at any patient, due to their innumerable inanities, at any time, no matter their age, in private in his consulting room or in public in the waiting room, or even outside in the street. But, with loved ones, when he was yelled at, especially with Louisa, Martin's response was a resounding silence and a shrinking of his immense size, a compression of being. He became nearly mute, which was noticeable even though he never was loquacious.

Martin had little or no honest introspection of his personality and lived at times in a sense of denial of how nasty his childhood was, and how it had perverted his psyche, and left gaping holes in his ability to communicate. He craved love and did love, and when those whom he loved got angry with him, it left him blank inside, and erased all his composure. He could not at all fathom how to maturely discuss those issues. He simply withdrew into himself. He felt crushing emotions he could not identify and he had thoughts he could not articulate.

He'd studied, achieved his degrees, and then worked all the time. He had established a life whereby he could do what he loved, surgery on people he barely knew and would not ever know, and avoid what he really needed to cure—his inability, his terror, of deeply connecting with others.

When Louisa yelled at him, he felt like he was one hundred years old inside, wrinkled, and cracked, dry and lifeless.

It was due to that comfortable reflex, his saying "No." He had said "No" to a hundred invitations throughout the years to drink in the pub, to chat about rubbish, to go to ridiculous fairs or dances, to go camping, to be a best man, to donate to cat shelters.

He didn't drink, he didn't chat, he didn't camp, he didn't enjoy fairs, he didn't dance, and he didn't like the people who had invited him to do all those activities anyway.

He had liked playing bridge, though, years ago. He had played some at University, too, and occasionally as a surgeon, there was a group of hospital colleagues who were decent competitors.

He saw Louisa by the Sea in his mind and realized that it would be endless work to bring that canvas to life. He would have to change himself, his life, to make her continually happy.

Could he do it?

He saw her looking at him, greatly displeased. Behind her he could see her desk against the wall, and beside the kitchen table was their child, James Henry, doing his infant dance of jerky limb movements. He thought of positive feedback and it wasn't the cognitive aspect of it, that he liked receiving it, but the emotional reality of it, that he was, simply, happy when she was happy. That when she smiled and the sun was behind her, Martin felt like he was special and living the best of life.

"I'll play," he said. It hadn't been that hard. His mouth had opened without a fight; the words had smoothly rolled out.

Louisa did a slight double take. "You're sure?"

"Yes. I'll call Garvey tomorrow."

Louisa stared at Martin as if he had grown a large wart on his face overnight. "Are you…", but she stopped herself, and lifted her fork and knife again and then suddenly put them back down and said, "You're different."

Martin did that head tilt of his. "Is that good?"

"It's…it's very good, Martin. Surprising. Unexpected. But, very good."

Hearing that, Martin took a little ring box out of his jacket pocket. He opened it up, and Louisa said, "Déjà vu."

Martin didn't reply and then reached across the table holding his grandmother's ring.

"Don't drop it in my dinner, again," she grinned.

"I won't."

Martin held it out for Louisa to take, still not understanding the importance of putting it on her finger. Louisa noticed that, felt the slight sense of disappointment at Martin's lack of so many social graces, but with Isobel on her shoulder, let it go and didn't feel it was something to quibble over. She took the ring and put it back on her finger. "It's been a long time."

"Think we can do it this time?" she mused, rolling her hand back and forth as she looked at it. She looked up and saw Martin's eyes wide, showing a kind of mini-shock, his whole face on red alert.

"Of _course_ we can do it this time," she clarified.

Martin slowly returned to his normal stoic self, and began eating his dinner again. "Mackerel is high in Vitamin D," he said, "which will help your and James' immune systems."

Martin hadn't changed _that_ much, but Louisa was realizing, still staring at the ring on her finger, she didn't really need him to.


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter Twenty-Three

Showing up at school the next day wearing her engagement ring again turned into a little crisis for Louisa. Her friends and staff were equally semi-congratulatory, aghast, and amused seeing it perched once again on her finger.

"Congratulations! I suppose."

"Still have your wedding dress?"

"When's the date?"

"You _still _want to marry him?"

Luckily, class time began and the day was busy enough that Louisa only heard scattered comments, most to her face, but some she came upon by chance. She was walking down the hallway when around the corner she heard two women talking, and from their voices, Louisa could easily identify them.

"Marrying that tosser, having to have sex with him, and then being dragged to London. I can't believe Louisa."

"That's not nice. You can't always help who you fall in love with."

"He gets everything—beautiful wife, child, and his job and his life in London. What does she get? A funny looking fellow who can barely speak. Losing her position here and her village as a whole."

"He's not that funny looking."

"Those ears alone! I mean, how can she be happy in London?"

Louisa took several steps back and then proceeded to walk past that hallway, hearing the "Ssh's" as she did so. She didn't look; she didn't say anything. It felt like she was at her baby shower, with the awful gifts and the endless snipping statements. She knew they had affected her back then. Now instead of listening to and being swayed by their concerns, Louisa thought of Martin and the desk, the painted apartment, and their culinary calendar.

She increased her pace. Still, she felt that no matter how fast she walked, she kept on going backwards.

On Thursday, Sebastian Trevenney came to his surgery to have his stitches removed. The leg had healed nicely, no infection, and Martin removed the stitches one at a time, an old habit to him. The scar was long and thin.

"Have you seen PC Penhale, yet?" Trevenney asked.

"Yes," Martin said as he tidied up his work area, throwing out the stitches and putting aside his used scissors.

"You got the check?"

"Yes."

"I'll untrain the dogs. They're very smart. It won't take that long."

"They're dangerous dogs."

"They were dangerous dogs, for anyone so out of place in Port Wenn they wear a suit."

Martin sat down at his desk and began writing his chart notes on the stitch removal. He glanced up at that last comment.

Trevenney stood. "But, they're good dogs. Overall obedient and well behaved. Anyway, I'm sorry what happened." He lifted his leg and pointed to it. "Thanks for sewing me up. Feels fine."

Even Martin could thaw when the other person showed integrity and gratitude.

"Be more careful holding knives," he said.

"Right, Doc."

Trevenney left and Martin worked through his remaining patients one by one.

Martin played bridge on Thursday, and it did indeed go well. The focus was on the game, not on mindless chitchat, and Douglas Lefford was a magnificent player and indeed better than Martin. It was rare that Martin found someone his equal in things he enjoyed, let alone superior; he was more adept than Roger Fenn and Garvey. Playing several hours, Martin and Garvey lost to Douglas and Roger, but not by much.

When he returned home, Louisa was on the sofa, reading a sentient fire engine children's storybook to James Henry. Martin sat down next her and briefly reported on the evening.

"So, you survived," she said, leaning over to kiss his cheek.

"Yes."

"Will you be playing again?"

"Next month."

"Before we leave."

"Yes."

"Too bad we're leaving, I suppose. If you like playing with them."

Martin didn't comment. He told her about Penhale and Trevenney, and she was quite pleased with how it turned out.

"You've got a check to buy a new suit—have you thought of a brown one, with maybe a brown and green tie? Trevenney's dogs will live but they'll not attack anyone in a suit. Win-win for all, don't you think? That's what's so nice about Port Wenn, how problems like this can be figured out to the benefit of all."

Martin didn't comment on that, either.

Later that evening, as they lay in bed, James in his crib to the side, they discussed the Christening of James Henry. Neither was religious in any serious way, in fact, they had both shared a historic mutual contempt of Danny Steele's newfound reliance on heavenly mumblings. But, tradition was tradition, and observing a standard Christening was something they both knew needed to be done.

The date was a week from that Sunday, the end of the month. Martin had given in to Louisa's urgings to have the Large's cater it, but no marquee was allowed. The food would be in the larger meeting room in the church. Martin was amenable to Louisa choosing the food as long as it was "nutritionally sound", although he understood some desserts were typically present as well.

"Half the village is overweight or obese," he stated.

"Nonetheless, Martin. Cakes are necessary."

He grunted and they moved on. The big question was the godparents. Martin was a single child and Louisa had as little contact with her sister as she had had with her mother and father over the years. It seemed that of everyone they knew, Roger and Maureen Fenn were the most logical choices.

"Must we have god-parents? I don't like the idea of strangers having any formal association with James Henry."

"It's tradition. And, we aren't choosing strangers, but friends who are excellent parents. We aren't choosing the Oakwoods."

"God, no."

"I can ask them when they bring James home tomorrow."

Martin went over the questions the vicar would ask, which Louisa had copied from the internet. "These are ludicrous. 'Do you reject the devil and all rebellion against God?'" He showed Louisa the rest of the Church of England promises made during the Christening service.

"Just say "Yes" to all of them."

Louisa then smiled widely and pulled out a bag from beside her side of the bed.

"Look," she said, taking out a long white baby-sized gown. "I bought it on-line."

Martin stared at it. "What is it?"

"A Christening gown. It's what babies wear." She thought it was gorgeous and would make their innocent child look even more adorable. Also, Louisa was self-satisfied in having paid for it herself, as Martin was naturally paying for all the other Christening bills. She had to admit, he never said a word or made any comment to that affect; he never did. It helped that he assumed the financial role with ease and didn't shove in her face. Her own sense of guilt did that enough.

Martin touched the material. "It's very thin. We should ensure he doesn't get chilled."

Louisa added, "And, Louisa, I'd like to add, it's very nice. You made a good choice. James will look lovely in it."

It was if the words had come from Auth Ruth's mouth. He wondered if he'd ever get the knack. "Yes," he agreed.

Louisa explained to Martin she had already invited the guest list she had created, with Martin's previous blessing. She had ordered Christening cards on-line and the address labels were ready to go. She showed him the RSVPs; everyone was coming except those who were going to be out of town. She informed Martin that all told, there was going to be nearly one hundred people attending.

"That many?" Martin asked, looking at the guest list. She knew it wasn't the financial obligation to feed all of them which dismayed him, but the thought he'd be responsible for greeting and socializing with that many people.

"It's a big event, Martin. Don't worry, by now people will know not to expect you to mingle."

"I don't mingle."

"I know. Everyone knows." Louisa sighed and thought back to the secret gossip at her school…"_he can barely speak_". "This is my village. I know a lot of people. You said I should invite whom I wished, and I did. You can stand like a lump in the corner, as you usually do, loathing everyone, but the people are already invited."

Martin looked at Louisa and she noticed his stare of a wounded animal, helpless to defend itself, with the predator nearing. In the past, if his personality flaw had initiated a harsh reply from her, and his eyes went wounded, Louisa had been able to ignore it, and be self-righteous about her response. But, now, it made her feel unbearably guilty. She realized she never wanted to hurt Martin, even when he was impossible.

"I mean, not like a lump. You don't have to socialize much. I can do that."

Still, he said nothing. Louisa continued, "I think that's everything. Date, church, guests, gown, food. Anything else?"

"No."

Louisa put the papers on her night table and the gown back in its bag. "So, what should we do now?"

"I've a book," Martin said, holding up his archaic first edition of "Anomalies and Curiosities of Medicine".

Louisa closed her eyes, and then with all her willpower, opened them and ran her hand gently through Martin's soft, short hair, cupping his cheek when she was done. "Martin, you really aren't _that_ stupid, are you?"

He paused for a moment, as if the animating system of his body had blown a fuse, and then suddenly it kicked back in. He put his book down and then turned and landed a very slight kiss on Louisa's lips. They parted, and kissed again, and this time their passion raised the temperature in their room what seemed to be a decided 10F degrees. It did not cool down until the last, lingering exhilarant cry faded away.


	24. Chapter 24

Chapter Twenty-Four

Stu MacKenzie was a decent fellow, well liked and a good bar mate, willing to buy a round of pints now and then. He didn't really have issues with anyone except one Doc Martin. That tosser stirred Stu's Scottish blood, and his actions once to derail Louisa Glasson's assignment as School Head Mistress had set off a cycle of hatred that Stu couldn't calm and didn't really want to appease. That Doc trying to prevent one of their own, one of the sweetest of their own from progressing in life; it was like waging war against the village, the family of Port Wenn. And, Stu MacKenzie was immensely protective of his family. If he could get at Doc Martin any way he could, he would.

He knew Louisa had resigned to move to London, that sewer of dirt, violence and noise. Stu had been raised in Glasgow, and finding Port Wenn twenty-five years ago had been a blessing to his spirit. Doc Martin was a selfish bastard to rip one of Port Wenn's foundational women and demand she move to London, where a job was difficult to find, and an administration job nearly impossible, given her simple college degree and her short experience as Head Mistress at Port Wenn's primary school. Although she excelled in the job here and she could boldly carry references from any School Governor-including the parents, the staff and the authority governors, like Stu, whom the community volunteers elected to the board—she was up against stiff competition, worse than she could even fathom in London.

It was clear to Stu, recently elected as Chair of the Governance Body, that the best place for Louisa Glasson was Port Wenn, whether with or without Doc Martin. The Assistant to the Superintendent for Instruction to Cornwall was leaving his position due to his diagnosis of pancreatic cancer. That job was up and Stu had some little influence in the hiring panel for a new one, as his wife's sister's cousin was on the hiring committee. He had the application in hand and would be stopping in to Louisa's office the next day. It would be quite a success for Louisa, a magnificent attainment of status for her, and something the entire town could be proud of; one of their own going so high. And, she'd no doubt want to accept the position and stay in Port Wenn.

And screw the bloody bugger Doc Martin.

Stu came upon Louisa in her office the next morning and reported to her the opening position of Assistant Superintendent, and how the Governance Board felt she was eminently qualified to apply. He laid the application form on her desk.

"But, I've resigned as Head Mistress," Louisa said, lifting up the pages to peruse them.

"Not yet, you haven't. We haven't heard back your final decision. Do you have it?"

Louisa felt like her entire mouth had disappeared, that there was no hole, no teeth, no tongue in her head, but just a walled over orifice, covered with thick, leathery skin. How she was torn!

"My niece has been trying to get a job in London for nine months, now, and she's got a Masters. Tough market there. I suppose you could just live off the Doc's money and take care of your lad. Maybe that's what you really want."

"No, I like to work," she said.

"And you do a good job. I mean, you're a top notch Head Mistress. Finally broke up that dare's club. You're talented and it's time you should be rewarded for your life's commitment to educating our young. Think of all the good you could do in that position. You might even make Superintendent yourself one day. You've got a place here in Cornwall, where you can move forward. You'll start at scratch in London."

If Stu had been some torturer, and his words water falling endlessly on Louisa's head, it could not have been more tormenting to hear him talk. Someone respecting her capabilities, not just in the job she held, but also even in a higher level of administration. It was a dream come true for her. A job come true, if she could win it.

"So, are you resigning?" Stu asked.

Martin understood she had resigned. He had repainted their flat in London in the colors she wanted, and he believed they were going together at half term. Once more everything tossed about in her cranium. Over and over; she was driving herself crazy. He had made that commitment to her, at the Castle. He wanted to be with her, wherever she was. She thought of the desk, the chair, their last night in bed, how he knew how to make her feel physically, even if he could not always do so verbally.

She loved him. And, she knew he would do what she needed him to do, even if it meant staying in Port Wenn.

Out of the blue, she recalled that dignified discussion, when they broke up their marriage, that each could not make the other happy, and that is what partners were supposed to do. The primary rule—make the other one happy. They had then gone their separate ways. Now that they were together, forever, how should she represent that axiom?

"I still don't know. I'm sorry," was all Louisa could muster.

"Well, at least you didn't decide to leave. Think it all over."

He said his good-bye and left. And, putting the gossip and pressure of his village to use, he mentioned by chance the available Assistant Superintendent position and Louisa's interest in it to Sally Chadwick, who he happened to run into leaving the school. He knew that Sally would begin the certain spread of new information and it would catch on like fire through dry timber. As he came out into the rainy day, Stu fought off the melodramatic urge to rub his cunning hands together. But, he did allow a wide and wicked grin to open up his face.

Louisa's face was thoughtful. She knew she should be dealing with her decision, and had to, but somehow instead her mind drifted back to the night before and Martin not being very stupid at all. She simply liked being around him, finally, and liked their love-making and the way they were communicating to find answers, instead of not communicating to create problems. It was like a small miracle to her, not only having Martin be approachable but also having him approach her, and wanting to make her happy. She was peeking into a certain selflessness in his character which she had never really conceptualized was present, or could be present. And, if Martin Ellingham could be that way, could she?

She didn't know.

Aunt Ruth stopped by for lunch at the surgery, as she did once or twice a week. "It's a bit like cabin fever sometimes," she said. "Although I am advancing on writing my book."

Martin served soup and sandwiches on whole grain bread. He poured his aunt a cup of tea. "How's your mouth doing?" he asked.

"Vile as ever," she said. "But, if you are referring to my saliva, the products you recommended are helping."

"Good."

"So…" she said, "Are you looking forward to London?"

"Yes."

"Any further word from Imperial?"

He had been speaking to Dr. Dashwood once a week, checking in. "They're preparing for my arrival end of next month."

"I see. You know, I heard you state you'd stay here for Louisa, when that odd chemist went bonkers."

"Yes. But, she resigned from her position."

"To move with you to London."

"Yes."

"I see. Do you think that's the best scenario for her?"

"What do you mean?"

"It'll be half term. I doubt she'll get a teaching position until next September."

"That's good. She can be with James. We won't need her income."

"Martin, that's only good to you, based on your old childhood issues."

"What issues?"

"Being raised unloved and neglected in an abusive family."

Martin didn't reply.

"You know, a child can be raised feeling unconditionally loved even if both parents work. It happens all the time today."

"Studies show—"

"—Oh, don't trot out the studies on psychology to me. I _am_ a psychologist. My colleagues wrote all those studies. I deal on a daily basis with the remnants of humanity in Broadmoor, many who had terrible childhoods, in fact, not much different than yours."

"It's best having the mother at home."

"Well, you aren't much of a feminist, are you? Of course, it's best. It's just not necessary."

"Why are you saying this?"

"Because it is a man's responsibility to his wife to make her happy."

Just what the vicar had said.

"Look, I think you should go to London. But, if you are committed to this relationship, and you informing me you're engaged, again, tells me you are, you should do all you can to make it successful. But, removing Louisa from her work, and her village may stifle her career, which is just as important to her as yours is to you. You both place a great deal of self-identification and self-esteem on your jobs. You need at some point to realize that's mutual, that Louisa feels the same."

"Are you suggesting I stay in Port Wenn?"

"This enchanting backwater? I don't know. I simply wanted to discuss the possibilities of raising healthy, happy children when both parents work. That's it. I'm done. Can I have more tea? This damp humidity chills my bones."

Martin filled her teacup with more steaming tea. He watched the vapor rise and it became the clouds behind Louisa's head, illuminating it as the last rays of the sun flowed through. Only this time, in his mind, she wasn't standing by the cliff, but in front of Port Wenn Primary School. She was just as beautiful there.


	25. Chapter 25

Chapter Twenty-Five

The next couple of weeks went very quickly. Peter Cronk came over on Saturdays to play chess.

Martin stated he was "Not really improving", which Peter sarcastically remarked, was "Not really helpful."

But, still, it was a pleasant couple of hours, Peter did learn a few techniques from Martin each week, and Martin agreed to continue their playing until he and Louisa moved away.

Martin kept working on Garvey's clock, which was slowly starting to come together.

The Christening came and went, the Fenns having been quite delighted to be godparents.

It started off better than Louisa could have ever imagined. Hoping to not get her pulsed checked again, she came downstairs in her finest dress and, giving it another go, asked Martin how she looked. He held James, and saw her standing there her arms out to her side, and something clicked inside him. "You're very lovely in that dress."

Louisa felt like she had run a race as hard as she could and she had finally reached the finish line. "Oh, thank you. And, you're quite handsome in that suit."

He grunted his acknowledgment. She came and took James Henry and put him tightly in his buggy. When she stood, their eyes met and they kissed.

Yes, Louisa thought, a very good start.

In the Church, later that morning, Martin rattled off his "Yes's" to each of the questions the vicar asked, in solid grimace mode, demonstrating that his answers actually caused him physical pain. During the reception he did basically stand like a lump in the corner, answering "Leaving!" to anyone who asked if he and Louisa were staying or leaving. Martin lost count how many times he said "Go Away!" to anyone who was foolish enough to attempt to engage him in any further mindless prattling. Luckily, Aunt Ruth despised mingling and chatting as much as she did, so he had company until the bothersome pests went back to their own homes and Martin paid the Larges for a surprisingly edible catering job.

On the drive home, Louisa was beaming brightly. "What a lovely Christening."

"Yes."

"The Large's food was quite good."

"If no one develops diarrhea."

She told herself she was in too good a mood to allow that to upset her.

She put her hand on his forearm. "It was lovely, Martin. Thank you."

He answered, from past lessons, "You're welcome."

"Oh!" she said, delighted to hear that. A compliment and a self directed "You're welcome" in one day. It was almost too much to bear!

Louisa had also been asked if they were leaving or staying and had pleasantly said it was their baby's Christening and let's focus on that, deftly turning the conversation to the inquisitors, who eagerly welcomed talking about themselves.

It was a good day at home, spending time with James, Martin working on his clock, Louisa watching some TV with Martin by her side reading his endless medical journals. She put in a DVD, and forced Martin to actually watch it with her, curling her arm around his and leaning against his broad and sturdy shoulder, and she knew that he spent half the time watching the movie and half the time watching her. Louisa was quite content with the equal percentage that split his attention. Too bad she didn't have a flower to put in his buttonhole.

Later, after one of his infamous long crying jags, James fell asleep and they put him down in the crib, Martin touching the back of his fingers to James' forehead and then rolling his hand gently around his son's head, and then lastly rubbing his cheek, in an established pattern. His large hand could encompass his son's skull, which represented a triad of golden insights, the forehead his health, the skull his capacity for intelligence, and his cheek, the softness of his emotions.

They were in bed, again.

"Nice day," Louisa said.

"Yes." He again picked up his medical book from his nightstand.

"Nice having the Christening out of the way."

"Yes."

Louisa wondered how many times one man could say "Yes" in a lifetime. Was there a Guinness Book of World Records on the subject? Still, it was better than "No's".

She looked at him, her fiancée, and the father of her child. Even in their difficult times, she had always admired and respected so much about him. His confidence and devotion to the care of his patients. His medical brilliance. His making his patients' health the primary focus of his life. His moral stature, his commitment to honesty and truth, his overcoming his phobia, his knowledge of right and wrong. He was not the most well adjusted man in the world, but he was good, and had a good heart, and didn't hide anything from Louisa. He was, as always, what he was.

She felt a sudden, overwhelming gratefulness that Martin Ellingham was in her life.

"I love you," she said. It was said just as it was meant, not as sentimental outpouring of gushy affection, but as a simple fact.

He looked at her, silent.

Louisa had a new and wicked idea. "Keep reading," she said, waving him back to his paused activity. With that she started lowering herself down in the bed, her right hand running down Martin's abdomen, under his pajama top.

"What are you doing?" he asked with some alarm.

Her hand traveled lower, and she positioned herself so that her head was slipping suggestively under the covers.

"What do you think?" she said, her voice muffled some by the blankets. With a little help from a stunned Martin, she was able to pull his pajamas down just enough; he didn't wear his boxers when he had those on.

"Are you sure—?" His enquiry was curtailed by his quick gasp.

Louisa continued for a few moments, satisfied with the situation so far, and paused just for a second to respond, "I'm sure."

It was the first time Louisa engaged in this type of sexual activity with Martin, and she enjoyed everything about it. She enjoyed her ability to arouse him so fully, his grabbing her head under the covers, her experience giving her some beneficial skill in her technique, the lubrication and pulsation of her own sex organs, and how near the end he stridently urged her to come up to him, yanking her north with intensity and then he pushed her over, and bore down into her as if his life depended on it. That intensity of his passion thrilled her and took her to monumental heights of pleasure. Their crashing together simultaneously was magnificent.

Lying apart in bed, clothes askew, Louisa's brown hair every which way, they were silent for a moment.

"Very nice day," Louisa repeated, in a deeply satisfying exhalation.

"Yes." He kissed her cheek.

She waited for the comment, the inevitable comment, the unavoidable comment, and for the first time ever she smiled a bit in anticipation. She wondered on a scale of zero-completely appropriate-to ten-completely inappropriate—where it would be graded.

"Good thing I have the habit of washing myself before bed," Martin said.

Louisa turned her head away to smile widely. She could write a book, "The Sayings of Martin Ellingham." That was an eleven, no doubt about it.

She turned back and kissed him and then, to continue to make him happy, got out of bed to attempt to urinate, to stave off the development of a post-coital bladder infection, a medical advisory he typically reminded her of. When she was back in bed, Martin was lying flat on his back, in proper bed position, ready for his immovable rest. Louisa climbed in, lucky that the heat from such a large man made the bed so warm so quickly.

She lay on her back, too. Martin grabbed her hand tightly under the covers. "You're so beautiful. I love you so much," he said. "I'm…very lucky."

Louisa turned to him, and saw that his eyes were shining with the truth of those words, his entire face showing an innocence of feeling. She perceived a blatant opening of his heart, so clearly visible to her, a rarity which made her feel as if she could float off the bed, as if her job here on Earth was done.

"Martin…" she answered, her eyes becoming watery.

"Are you crying?" he asked.

"Happy tears," she explained, wiping away the drops with her hand.

"Ah, good." He handed her a tissue from the box on his night table. She wiped her eyes and blew her nose.

They settled back to bed, still holding hands. The day was over. Neither had any more words to say, and none, anyway, were needed.


	26. Chapter 26

Chapter Twenty-Six

October continued the rain but brought with it unseasonably cold weather, ten to fifteen degrees below normal, in the high 30s or low 40s. Winter sweaters were coming out.

Louisa's work lost some of its shiny gloss due to the constant comments. Hibernating in her office more to avoid seeing her co-workers, one slow workday, on a whim, she filled out the application for the Assistant Superintendent position, and felt wide emotional reactions, deep shame and great pride.

She put it aside, and continued on with her school duties.

She still received unwanted and unwarranted complaints about her resignation, and her engagement. She acted like it didn't bother her, and continued on with her work. But, it did bother her, people sticking their noses into her life, when they didn't know anything about her, about Martin, about them together. She remembered being so malleable a year ago, and full of judgment herself. But, now, things were so much different. She didn't share with them her life with Martin, as she began to realize that she would spend most of her time defending Martin against her friends, and she didn't feel she had to. She didn't want to hear their judgments against him, and their crass determination that they knew what was best for her.

Louisa was working hard to figure that out for herself. Aunt Ruth showed up one day at lunch, quite a surprise as she had never shown any interest in the Primary school.

"Martin's busy with chart notes, so I thought I'd enliven your day with my presence, instead. Do you mind? We haven't seen each other in a couple of weeks."

Aunt Ruth joined them for supper or they went up to her farmhouse on the weekends every week or two. Louisa missed the vibrant energy of Aunt Joan, her tempestuous opinions and her practical wisdom. But, Aunt Ruth did grow on her. With all the chaos in Louisa's life in the last couple of years, Aunt Ruth, with her insightful calm, and unruffled, no nonsense and restrained demeanor, and at times her droll humor, was easy to be around, and seemed to be a miniature yet more innately functional Martin.

Louisa was eating a tuna sandwich Martin had made for her before she left for school that morning, in the large lunchroom. It was a bit noisy with the children giggling and shouting. Louisa shook her head no, as she swallowed and then yelled out, "Timothy Busfield! No throwing your food!"

Knowing the teachers would watch the rowdy kids, she waved Aunt Ruth to follow her and they sought refuge in Louisa's office. They sat down in chairs and Louisa finished the last bites of her meal.

"Kind of loud at lunch," she said. "They've got a lot of energy."

"Yes, one of the most annoying things about children, their endless energy."

Louisa could picture Martin as a child, and had at times, skinny and smart, studious and introverted. She could not picture Aunt Ruth as a child at all; she wondered if the woman had ever been young.

"You've never had…?" she timidly asked.

"Certainly not! I treat the refuse of humanity for an income. No need to add to the ranks myself."

"You'd be a better mother than that, no doubt."

"Unlikely. My parental role modeling was abysmal. Same with Martin. Ellinghams serve the world best by not procreating."

"Well, we did do that…."

"Yes, and one hopes you're the exception to the rule."

Louisa spoke softly, in a kind of mumble, as she did when the conversation was getting awkward, and too personal, "I'm sure we will be…"

"Are you ready to go to London, then? The center of the Empire?"

Louisa's mind blew a fuse and she could not answer with anything more than "Er,", "Ums", and the like. Her prayer for a significant interruption went unheard by heavenly powers and she sat there, a body with no brain, under the unreadable gaze of Aunt Ruth.

"Cat got your tongue? Not surprised. I doubt you'd want to go. Leave your village, your home." She leaned forward. "I was witness to Martin stating he'd stay here for you." She sat back up. "Of course, he'd be miserable, with the loss of his surgical career, and God knows the legal entanglements getting out of his contract with Imperial, but…he did say he'd stay."

"I know."

"You could hold him to it."

Louisa turned away from Ruth, and closed her eyes. This was too much work to do at lunch, and she had wanted a little break from her internal turmoil, not someone putting it in the spotlight.

"I better get back to work," she said, standing up.

Ruth took the hint. She stood and said, "If we lived in an ideal world, we could easily make all decisions in ways that made us and our loved ones equally happy." She took a few steps and added, "Perhaps we still can do that now and then. And if not, then one needs to choose what's best for all, if not themselves. Rather like the Musketeers. Good-bye."

Louisa gave a weak wave to the retreating woman. Perhaps she should have been more open and sharing with her, but Louisa would not have known where to begin or what to say. She barely had the time to process any of that conversation when Stu Mackenzie showed up and asked her again about her decision.

It felt like she was encircled in a steel band and it was slowly closing around her chest.

She knew time was running out, but she got another week from the ever accommodating Stu. But, after next Friday, mid-October, he could not hold off the Governance Board any longer, he warned.

"And you should mail that in," he said, pointing at the application, which he enjoyed seeing was filled out.

He took an envelope out of his breast pocket and held it out to Louisa. "Here you go."

She took it warily. "What is it?"

"References. From me, Banning, and two of the parents on the Board. Send them in with your application. Early ones get looked at first."

"I'm not sure I'm sending it in."

"Sure you are. You can always turn down the offer, if you wish."

She could always turn down the position. Send in the application just to see if she'd get the job, if they stayed.

"You've a good chance, especially in this type of autumn. Who wants to live through this weather except a native, eh?"

He left, this time deliberately going to Sally's office, where he chitchatted a bit and then blithely informed her that Louisa was going to send in the application, with numerous excellent references. It was like Sherlock Holmes and Moriarty, only Stu was sure he was the detective and the Doc was the evil villain.

Louisa figured she could send in the application and if she got the job, which she would turn down, it would still be good to put on her resume for jobs in London. After all, did she want to drive forty-five minutes each way daily to Truro, where the Assistant Superintendent worked? Though, it would be quite something for a Cornish village teacher with a BS to get that high in administration. Everyone would be proud of her…except, maybe, Martin. Martin who made her cry out in ecstasy…Martin whom she loved to touch. Martin with his culinary calendar, feeding Louisa what she wished each night. Martin the way he touched James Henry's head.

Aunt Ruth's words were still strikingly clear in her mind, "In an ideal world…"

She looked down at the references. On a whim she added them into the addressed envelope and licked it, sealing it shut. She left it on her desk, planning to leave it there, but it was gone the next morning. It wasn't on the floor or in the trash bin.

She asked around the school and Sally, the secretary, said she had dropped the morning post on Louisa's desk and then picked up the envelope and posted it, seeing it ready to go. Asking if she had made a mistake, Louisa had to take a minute to close her mouth, shocked into opening widely, and then she replied, "Um, Yes, No, I don't know. It's fine."

Louisa walked away in as much confusion as she had conferred on Sally.


	27. Chapter 27

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Working much of his spare time over the last weeks on the little parts, Martin had finished the clock during his lunch break. He sat and watched the clock face run exactly to time, while the ship attached to it rocked back and forth in tandem with the clock gears.

Morwenna, who brought her lunch and after catching up on work, oftentimes watched TV in his living room, the weather being too bad to leave, came in holding her phone camera. "

Say cheese," she said.

"What are you doing?"

"Taking a picture of your masterpiece. Smile." She clicked and got a lovely shot of the clock with Martin's scowling face behind it. "Perfect. I'll print it out to send to your mother."

Morwenna didn't know a thing about Martin's mother. Martin didn't reply.

After the last patient was cared for, he left Louisa and James to buy dinner—lamb chops with sautéed chard and onions, as per the calendar-and to stop off at Garvey's to return the clock. He wrapped it up in plastic bag after plastic bag.

He went to Garvey's first. A few knocks on the door brought either Clyde or Clifton to open it. Martin could not tell and didn't care. Martin dashed in, out of the drizzle.

"Ah, Garvey said, "Welcome, Dr. Ellingham. Like a nice stiff toddy to warm your bones? Surely even you can't find fault with whiskey, honey and lemon."

"No."

"What have you got there, then? My old clock?"

"Yes." Martin unwrapped the clock from the layers of plastic wrap and put it on the mantel, made sure the time was right by checking his watch, and stood back for Garvey to see. The clock was very pretty, all cleaned up, the wood polished, the metal shiny, the clock face sparkling. It ran with a gentle ticking and the boat rocking above the clock was slow and steady, almost hypnotic.

Garvey's mouth dropped open a little. "That's...That's…" He shook his head. "I'm speechless, and that's not common, I can tell you!" He watched the clock in his movements. "You're a clock fixing genius, Doctor. I'm impressed."

Martin was proud of his work, and stood there watching the clock. Perhaps he should write up his work in a journal he knew for clock fixers. Not quite discussing a surgical technique of vascular significance, but nonetheless of worth to some experts.

"You've just given me a $7000 pound investment income. Surely I can pay you something?"

"No," Martin held his hand up, refusing the offer.

"Come and have a sit then. We'll have a chat."

"I don't chat."

Garvey smiled. He reached over and picked up a book. "I'm an avid reader. I bet you are, too. What are you reading now?"

Martin said, "Journal of Vascular Surgery."

"Fascinating line of work, surgery. A person's whole life in your hands. I'm sure you've helped a lot of patients. I'd love to hear about one or two unusual presentations."

In the years Martin had been in Port Wenn not one person had ever asked him to discuss his surgical career, and cases he saw. And there were very few people to whom Martin would ever care to share that to. Roger Fenn, Louisa, Aunt Ruth; he could not think of any other people he'd met here who could barely hold his interest outside of the vital necessities.

Still, Martin was silent.

"Also, we could discuss our strategy next month in our second bridge match against Doug and Roger. Did you notice their tendency is to use Goren bidding in the natural system?"

Martin looked at Garvey askance. That was probably the most intelligent question anyone had ever asked him in Port Wenn. "Yes, and they use the cue system for slam bidding."

"Right, right, I was wondering about that. Come on, Doctor, have seat. A good bridge discussion makes one feel life is worth living."

Warily, Martin sat down as if the chair might contain a hidden bomb, ready to explode upon receiving his weight. He didn't really know what he was doing, or why he was doing what he didn't know he was doing. It seemed futile to spend time discussing a partnership that would be dissolving after the next game, but there was something so entreating about the topic, about hearing words not gossip based, or spoken by idiots, Martin was intrigued. Garvey led the discussion, being a much more gregarious fellow, but Martin did participate, analyzing their own bids and how they could more clearly lead a card to help the declarer understand his partner's hand.

They actually chatted for fifteen minutes, an eternity to Martin's usually laconic vocal cords, and then Martin realized he still had to pick up supper.

"Ow!" came from one of the twins across the room, as they played some sort of DVD game, cars racing on twisted roads. Clyde or Clifton grabbed at his lower gut.

"Clyde's been backed up since he was a child. Diagnosed with IBS. Always needs a laxative or enema to get anything out," Garvey leaned close to Martin, "Worse since he's here.

Did you take your fiber?" he asked to the boy.

"Don't do nothing. Never has."

"Gives him a lot of discomfort."

The spell broken, Martin stood up. "He should see me at my surgery."

Clyde said, "Nah. Been to a lot of docs. Five minutes, fiber and more water and out the door. It's all bollocks."

Martin had no patience with bad decisions. "I'll see you tomorrow, 9:00 a.m."

Garvey smiled. "That's that, Clyde. Don't worry. He's the best."

Martin grunted, back to his usual state of sparse communication. Garvey led him to the door. "Nice chatting with you. I think we've got a better chance of winning this time." Garvey held out his hand, again. "Thanks for the clock, Doctor. It really is very pretty, and certainly designed for a sailor's home." He tilted his head towards his nephew, "And thanks for helping Clyde. The boy has it bad."

It was easier to shake Garvey's hand, this time, less fighting against his own body.

As he walked down to the green grocer and the fish shop, Martin had to come to an uncomfortable realization, something strange and foreign to his soul. Martin Ellingham had to admit to himself that he liked Matthias Garvey. It was no less painful than pulling out one of his own teeth, but then the pain dissipated and Martin felt somewhat numb, a decided improvement on his loathing everyone.


	28. Chapter 28

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Next morning, Clyde and Clifton showed up at the surgery a little after 9:00 am. Finding out which one was Clyde, Doc Martin ushered him in to his consulting room, but Clifton snuck in as well. Both sat in chairs across from Martin at his desk.

"Is Clifton staying?" Martin asked Clyde.

"Yeah. We do everything together."

Martin filled out the basic paperwork for a new patient, and then spent some time getting the history of Clyde's constipation problem. Always had it, even as child. Never got better no matter what he ate, or what he eliminated from his diet. Fiber was bosh for him, same with prunes and all the rest. No imaging or colonoscopy.

"I just don't go. Got Irritable Bowel, they say. Due to nerves."

"He can get nervous about things," Clifton added. "Girls, and studying, and whether Chelsea'll win."

"They tried all kind of drugs, anti-anxiety, anti-depressants."

Martin put Clyde on the examining couch and did an abdominal exam. Pain was mostly elicited in the lower left quadrant of his intestines.

"Go back to your chair," Martin said, returning to his.

"So, Doc, what do you say? IBS? Keep on the laxatives?"

Martin put down his notes and looked at Clyde. "I'm scheduling you for a barium study, colonoscopy and biopsy of your rectal lining."

Clyde looked aghast. "I don't think so."

"Shut up. You'll drive to Truro Hospital this afternoon. I'll have the results by tomorrow."

Martin handed them imaging orders and Clyde reluctantly took them. "Do you know what I have?" he asked.

Martin looked up. "Probably Hirshsprung's Disease."

"What's that?"

"A genetic disorder of the colon where a section, usually in the rectum, does not have ganglion nerve fibers."

"I don't know what that means."

"There are no nerve signals allowing stool to move through that section."

"So, it just sits there all the time?"

"Yes."

"And I have to use laxatives to blow it out?"

"Yes."

"Why didn't anyone else look into this?"

"90% of patients are diagnosed as newborns. It's rare to be diagnosed your age."

"But, I've had it my whole life."

"Apparently in a milder form with no history of colonic obstruction." He paused and then added, "And, your previous physicians may have been incompetent."

He continued writing in his chart notes and when the twins still sat there, Martin looked up, and motioned with his pen to the door. "Go away."

After the twins left, Martin called Truro Hospital and relayed his information and asked them to send the test results as soon as possible.

He was not surprised when the test results came back two days later and the diagnosis was confirmed. He saw the twins and Garvey this time, explaining that a specific type of surgery would be indicated, and that the best surgeon for the procedure was in London. He had set up a consulting appointment with the surgeon in a month's time. Until then, he advised Clyde to maintain his laxative use.

"You're a good man and a better physician, Doctor Ellingham. Thanks for caring to examine him and helping to make the diagnosis," Garvey said as they all strode into the waiting room. It was full and since most folks usually fled Martin's office as quickly as possible, having been yelled at, intimidated or insulted by Martin, it was unique to hear someone praise the doctor so effusively.

Martin grunted in response, though he could not deny a certain satisfaction at helping Garvey's nephew.

"Oy, how much did you pay him to say that, Doc?" someone joked.

Martin turned and shrunk him down to the size of a midget with a look of absolute scorn and then went back into his consulting room.

"You're an ass, Wally," Garvey said. Everyone felt relieved hearing that. Someone had called a patient an "Ass" in the waiting room. Things were back to normal.


	29. Chapter 29

Chapter Twenty-Nine

It was Monday, October 15th and Louisa knew that Stu Mackenzie was going to come in demanding to know if she was staying in Port Wenn or not.

She should have spoken about it to Martin the night before, but had been interrupted by Martin receiving his weekly call from Dr Robert Dashwood, his old mentor who had led to his getting the Head of Vascular position at Imperial. Dr. Dashwood checked in with Martin, relaying detail about his soon to be ex-locus tenens, and what was occurring at Imperial. Martin enjoyed being kept in the loop and maintaining contact with the hospital he was going to join. For as much as Martin could show excitement, he showed it after hanging up the phone. He eagerly told Louisa what was occurring there, what was happening in Vascular, any interesting cases the department had seen that past week.

Louisa enjoyed seeing him actually ecstatic about his new job.

She actually just liked seeing him happy, which she picked up more from his eyes, than from his mannerisms or words.

She had to make a decision, and stand by it, and let Stu know and then let Martin know.

What old Louisa wanted to do was run away. She was just fathoming now what new Louisa wanted to do.

A knock on her door pulled her out of her worried trance. "Come in," Louisa said.

Tricia Soames slid into the office. She resembled a mouse in her nervous, quick mannerisms, and her general air of bashfulness and apprehension. Yet, she was a good enough teacher and with her OCD under better control with medication and counseling, Louisa did not feel she put herself or the children at risk. Now, when there was a fire drill, Tricia could leave the school with everyone else, no matter the time.

"May I speak to you, Miss Glasson?" she squeaked.

"Yes, of course. Have a seat." Any distraction was a good distraction. "How can I help you?"

Tricia stood up suddenly, looking around as if danger was oozing from the very walls of Louisa's office. "I shouldn't be here. I shouldn't have come." She took a step towards the door and Louisa stood up, and went around the desk.

"What's going on? Have a seat. You can talk to me."

Louisa tried to pull Tricia back to the chair but she was frozen in her stance, nearly ready to cry.

"You've been very good to me. Very good. I know I'm…different…I'm working on my problem…You've been very patient," Tricia rambled. "I shouldn't be here. It's not my business. But, my mother, sister, they said I should."

"Tricia, calm down and sit down. That's an order," Louisa said softly, guiding the young woman back to the chair and pushing her down into it. Tricia stayed there for a couple of seconds, so Louisa said "Good," and moved a chair right by Tricia, to avoid putting the desk between them.

"Now, tell me what's going on."

"I don't want to."

"I can see it's upsetting you a lot. Go on, tell me."

Tricia sat in her chair and rubbed her hands together so roughly Louisa wondered if she'd lose any skin. She was agitated and antsy, unable to stay still.

"Tricia?"

"Oh, god. Please don't hate me. Promise me you won't hate me."

"Of course I won't hate you. That's an odd thing to say."

Tricia closed her eyes and lifted her head up high, exposing her white, dainty neck, as if to offer herself in sacrifice. She took a deep breath in and lowered her head, opened her eyes, but looked away from Louisa. "My cousin, he works at a hotel in Exeter. A couple of months ago, he was working and was bringing a room service meal to a guest in her hotel room. He had a sandwich to deliver and brought it to a thin, red-haired woman."

Louisa body started tensing up, as if it had heard an old city bell ringing out the sound barbarians were approaching.

"While he was in the room, a tall doctor started asking him odd questions, about his artery, and my cousin left as he had to return to the kitchen to get other food trays to deliver."

A tall doctor…

"This doctor followed him into the kitchen, and told him he had polymyalgia rheumatica, and he had better go to his GP and get his temporal artery checked so he didn't lose his vision. Then there was chaos as someone's finger got cut off and they had to find it. My cousin held the man's hand high to slow the bleeding. After the ambulance came, my cousin kept working for a few hours, and then on his break, called his GP and made and appointment. Next day the diagnosis was confirmed. He wanted to thank the doctor more formally, and went to the front desk and his friend there said that Drs. Edith Montgomery and Martin Ellingham, of Port Wenn, had shared the hotel room...". Tricia let her voice trail off.

Louisa shook her head back and forth in tiny movements. "No, no. He must be mistaken."

"My cousin described him-tall, 6'2 or 3, broad shoulders, short grey hair, grey eyes, in a suit, ears kind of stuck out a bit, authoritative personality…"

"What? When did this happen?"

Tricia told her the date. Two days before she gave birth. Two days before Martin told her how terrified he had been of her being harmed, of losing her. Two days before they kissed so passionately and she gave birth to their son.

"No," she repeated, in a daze, "Martin didn't spend the night with Edith Montgomery."

Tricia stood. "I'm sorry. I know you have decisions to make. I was told you should know."

"Told? By whom?" Did everyone know this? It was a horrifying idea.

"My mother and sister. I shared this with them after my cousin told me. I'm sorry. I'm so, so, sorry." With a sob, Tricia covered her mouth and ran from the room.

Louisa stayed seated, speaking to no one. "He didn't spend the night with her." Not with Edith Montgomery. Not her OB/GYN, guiding her through pregnancy while sleeping with the father of her child. The father of her child, who slept with his old lover and then two days later declared his love for her.

The room spun in increasing circles and Louisa felt nauseous, a thin layer of perspiration covering her body. She grabbed for the desk, and bent her head low. She felt like she was going to vomit up the very core of herself, her very essence. She felt she was alone on a field of war, gravely wounded, and everyone else had gone home. No, even more alone. All alone in the entire universe, a dark universe where no moons beamed their lights to brighten the black sky.

"Oh, god, Oh, god, Oh, god," she said, tears beginning to slide down her cheeks. They felt like acid, burning into her skin. She slid off the chair, to rest on the floor leaning against her desk.

She had been so close, so close, her devotion to him, to making him happy, as she should. To moving to London, supporting him, his career, and his life. But, all she thought of London now was other single female physicians, leading Martin on, giving him attention, and relating to him at a medical level Louisa could never achieve. And would he make love to them, as well, and then come home and say he loved her, and she was beautiful.

How could he have done that? Louisa became terrified. She didn't know him, who she thought she knew so well. After all they had been through, after all his gestures, his words, his touches; she shuddered in disgust.

So many years spent on Martin Ellingham, so much energy, so much angst, so much hope. It had all been a waste of time, a total waste of time except for James Henry.

She thought she had won against Edith Montgomery, but she hadn't. Edith had won. And all the other Ediths in London might win, too.

There in her office, sitting on the floor like a child, Louisa cried, and she felt her heart fluttering, irregularly spitting out beats as a death rattle until as she heaved once more in unutterable sadness, and it sent its last beat out and broke.


	30. Chapter 30

Chapter Thirty

Having a light afternoon of patients, Martin strode down the street to the greengrocer. He saw the group of girls, walking together up the road. He didn't hear the teasing they launched at a man standing in the doorway but he heard the man's response, "Go on, you obnoxious harpies!". Martin's head swung to the sound of the insult, remembering weeks ago he had used that phrase.

"We're not harpies!" one yelled back.

Martin passed the group, hearing one ask, "Why are people calling us that. Anyone know what harpies are?"

A general consensus of "No" muttered about and then Martin was past them. He entered the greengrocer, picking up the vegetables for dinner, brussel sprouts and broccoli. He already had the chicken breasts, and was getting a few more food supplies in his little carry basket. Bert Large came into the store and reached for the candy bars.

"Put those down," Martin ordered.

Bert, his lips pierced together, put them down.

"Really, doc, can't I have any sweets at all?"

"No."

"I heard that chocolate is good for you."

"Now when you're 150 lbs overweight."

Bert was insulted. "Maybe 100 pounds." He pounded on his shoulders. "I've a stocky build."

"Underneath the fat," Martin said in a mumble Bert could easily hear.

Bert realized the conversation was a losing battle, so he switched tactics, irritating Martin further as he followed him around the store.

"Go away," Martin said.

"I've heard you're staying here. With Louisa applying for the Assistant Superintendent job in Truro."

Martin stopped still. "What?"

"You're staying here, like you declared at the Castle."

"No, we're not."

"Well, how can you move if Louisa is applying for the Assistant Superintendent job?"

"She's not."

"Stu MacKenzie says the Education Council has already received her application."

"He's wrong."

"I don't think so. I guess you'll have to get your furniture back from London."

Martin felt himself revved up inside as if his blood was speeding through his veins at a million miles an hour. He felt a certain panic develop, and he knew panic, but this time, not for blood, but a feeling of claustrophobia, that he had to get out of that store, this village, this planet, right now.

He strode away from Bert, paid for his groceries and nearly ran out the store. Hitting the street wet from rain, he actually did start running, not aware of who he passed or ran into and not even sure where he was going. But, he ran, and found himself by instinct back in his kitchen, dropping the food on the table, and bending over winded and weak.

Roger Fenn was there, dropping off James. "Ah, Martin, there you are."

In general, Roger would pick up James in the morning and Maureen would drop him off in the afternoon, but sometimes it was reversed. When Roger stopped by in the afternoon, if Martin had a spare minute or two with patients, they'd have a little conversation, not long, but congenial. Martin was certainly better one on one than in any type of group. However, he was by no means amiable at the moment.

Martin said nothing and Roger, putting James in his buggy, asked, "Are you alright?"

Martin stood up. "Please go away."

Roger's lowered brows studied Martin closely. "Are you sure? I have some time to talk if you wish."

"No. Go away."

Roger slowly left, shutting the door behind him. Martin had a very white complexion, but now his coloring was a wan and sickly green grey. His legs gave way and he plummeted into a chair.

When was Louisa going to tell him? Martin didn't even know what to think, what thoughts to elicit. His normally organized mind, with everything deftly categorized, was spinning so wildly everything was crashing into his skull, flying into pieces.

She should have told him she was staying. Did she want him to stay with her? Why did she go behind his back? She had given him no warning, no way to prepare Imperial, expecting him less than two weeks away. Was it Louisa and the village against him? He had thought, he had wanted, he had so desperately tried to make it them, together, as a couple, standing against anyone else, everyone else.

Louisa arrived home soon after. One would not have identified her through her steps, which were not light and airy as usual, but heavy, plodding, as if her batteries of life were shutting down. She hadn't removed her raincoat and little drops fell off her coat onto the floor.

She came into the kitchen to find Martin, sitting hunched over in a chair, his left hand in the buggy, resting on the sleeping chest of his son.

When she saw Martin, her grief gave way to outrage, and she screamed out "You bastard!" as her foot stepped in the room. At that entrance point her legs were reactivated and she bore down on him.

Martin sat up abruptly. "What?"

Louisa slapped him, as hard as she could, wishing she was stronger, wishing she could have struck him to the floor. The sound reverberated through the kitchen and Martin's face swung to the right his cheek discolored darkly red.

He stood up and although he towered over her, Louisa's raw emotional power seemed to push him back.

"How _could_ you? How could you do that?" she raged.

Rude, brusque Martin had no ability to stand up for himself in a fight, when anger swirled around him, and was directed at him. His usual posturing intimidated people enough that day to day they shirked from any confrontation with him, feeling inadequate to his authoritarian, judgmental attitude and his obvious intelligence. But, when pushed, when attacked, Martin had no internal resources; his tall body found itself spineless.

"Do what?" he asked, his hand covering his pained cheek.

"Sleep with Edith Montgomery! Sleep with her and then come declaring your affection for me, watching me give birth to our child! I thought I knew you. I don't know anything about you!"

"What are you talking about? I didn't sleep with Edith."

"You're lying! I know you spent the night with her. Oh, my god, when we made love, were you thinking of her?"

"Louisa—"

Her own question rocked Louisa to her core. She burst into tears and ran from the kitchen. Martin, nearly incapacitated by the situation, watched her escape upstairs. He had always watched her walk out, watched her leave. What was the point to go after her? She was probably going to leave him to stay in Port Wenn, anyway.

He didn't know what to do. He had barely understood the simple niceties of life with her, and only through Aunt Ruth's help had he made improvements. This, this called too much upon him. He stood in the empty kitchen, and suddenly he was leaving PC Penhale's, and it was late in the day, and the sun was casting its last light on a beautiful woman by the cliffs, his woman, his Louisa, everything he had always dreamed of having.

Martin glanced down at his son, who had miraculously slept through their row, and followed Louisa upstairs. She was in their bedroom, packing a suitcase. Her raincoat was off, a crumbled ball on a chair.

"What are you doing?"

"Leaving you and this sham of a relationship."

She stopped, pulled her engagement ring from her finger and threw it at him. He picked it up and put it in his jacket pocket.

He wanted to say "No, don't leave me. Don't go. You're wrong. I didn't sleep with Edith." He had wanted to be that far in his growth, his changes. But, instead her packing and throwing the ring brought searing pain to his eyes, and entirely different words spilled from his mouth.

"You were going to leave me, anyway. To take the job in Truro."

Louisa bombarded her suitcase with some more sweaters and then stopped, and lifted her head. It was her turn now to ask, "What?"

"Bert told me. The application for Assistant Superintendent. You were staying here for the job."

'That's not true."

"Did you fill out the application?"

"Yes, but—"

"—And it was posted."

"Yes, but—"

"Why didn't you tell me? Is this what you were going to do? Stay here without me?" Martin asked, and his face twisted into a dismayed mask.

"No, no," she said, and then, she recovered her balance. "Don't change the subject! You slept with Edith."

"I didn't."

"You shared a bedroom at the Rougemont Hotel in Exeter! It's in the registry. Do you deny that?"

"She set that up—"

"—I've got a witness you were there!"

"What? What witness?"

"The man you diagnosed—"

Martin's cell phone rang in his jacket pocket. "Damn!" he said taking it out, recognizing the number, and opening it. "Ellingham!"

He listened to the voice, his head nodding. "I'll be right there." He closed up his phone.

"Edith inviting you to dinner?" Louisa asked.

"I don't love Edith! I love you!" Martin said, vehemently. He rubbed his forehead roughly, and then added. "I have to go. Some ill sailor."

"Martin—!" she began, suddenly sensing something was drastically wrong, and it was not what she thought. A sudden fear settled over her.

He turned to leave and added, "I didn't sleep with her."

Louisa feebly answered, "I heard the story from Tricia's cousin—"

She stopped herself. In all their interactions, Louisa knew one thing; Martin had never lied to her. He had insulted and disrespected her, but he had never lied. And, there was proof, although it seemed to be growing quite specious suddenly. He admitted he shared the room with Edith. Had he slept with Edith for memory sake, but truly loved Louisa? Was that any better? Or, could she believe him, that they had shared a room but were never intimate. And, on top of all that, how did Bert know about the application?

He was a big man but when necessary, he could move quickly. Martin dashed out of the room and Louisa followed him. "Wait!" He zipped down the staircase and got his medical bag from his consulting room, quickly checking the drawer to ensure they were full of appropriate supplies. By chance, he saw himself in the mirror on the wall, marked red on his cheek like Hester Prynne in "The Scarlet Letter." Only, his mark was false.

Louisa stood at the doorway. It seemed best to first defend her actions. "Martin, you don't understand. The application was posted without my knowledge."

"You had filled it out," he said sliding by her.

"Yes, but just to—" To what? Did she really know why she filled it out?

Martin was at the front door, and put on his trench coat. "James will need a feeding soon," he said, and walked out into the blustery late afternoon air. He didn't close the door and came back a second later. "Will you be here, when I return?"

Louisa was stunned by how he looked. His face seemed hollow, his eyes empty of life, his skin sallow. He seemed like a very old man, realizing he had lost the point of life, despondent not _of_ his existence, but due _to_ it. Louisa suddenly felt sick inside, worse than from any infection she ever had. She seemed to be decaying though still alive, as if her organs were rotting, had already become a corpse, only animated by her skin. This had gone terribly wrong. Something was terribly wrong. She did not know what it was, she did not know now _what_ was going on, but among all the chaos in their home, she knew one thing for sure.

"Martin-" she said, and James woke up at that very moment, hungry and wailing loudly for food. Her head instinctively turned to the kitchen and turning back to the door, Martin was gone.


	31. Chapter 31

Chapter Thirty-One

The phone call had come from the emergency boat crew down by the Platt. It wasn't raining then, and there was still a bit of light in the sky as the sun continued its descent into the Western horizon. Martin hurried down Manor Road, striving for his dedication to his patients to overshadow his turmoil. It was hard. How Tricia, the OCD patient, had learned about Edith and him at the Rougemont, he didn't know. It struck him to the marrow that Louisa would ever believe he had slept with Edith and then two days later shown her his heart was tied to her, although he knew the hotel picture didn't look good without the details. That could be straightened out. What was immeasurably worse was Louisa planning on staying, to get a new job, and not asking him to stay, too. How had everything gone so wrong when it had been going so good?

He was at the Royal Navy Lifeboat Institution office in a couple of minutes, and the situation took over, forcing everything else from his mind. It was a moderate sized office, but barely furnished, mostly with a desk, a couple of chairs, a phone, a small table holding a coffee pot, and radio equipment. The rest of the space was taken up with lifejackets, helmets, and dry suits, and other accessories used regularly to rescue wayward surfers, swimmers in trouble, and close to shore fishing vessels.

A young man, lean, mid-twenties, with dark, thick hair, freckles and ruddy cheeks, sat at the radio.

"Hey, Doc. Hello," he waved. "I'm David Weston, RNLI crew chief tonight. We've got a problem on a fishing boat."

"What is it?"

"Boat's stalled. Engine trouble. All the other's are in, anchored. Eighteen year old male is complaining of abdominal pain."

"Call the Coast Guard."

"The boat's only out 2.5 miles, within our territory. Coast Guard wouldn't take kindly to being called when we've got our Arancia lifeboat ready to go. We're supposed to answer emergencies within three miles inshore. That's the legal limit of most of these small fishing boats."

"Bring him back here."

"Ah, that's the problem. He won't get off the boat unless you tell him to."

"What?"

"Kid's Clyde Garvey. Know him?"

"Yes."

"It's Matt Garvey's boat out there; him and his nephews on it. Apparently they got some fishing to do and won't stop working on the engine to jump start it until you analyze the kid and see what's up."

"That's ludicrous."

"Gotta say I agree." He held up the radio microphone. "Want to talk to Garvey?"

Martin huffed in frustration and put his medical bag down on the floor. "How do you to use it?"

David took it back and turning a dial or three or four was soon talking to Garvey. He handed the microphone to Martin. "Listen, and then press here to answer."

"Garvey," Weston said. "Doc Martin here."

"Hello, Doctor Ellingham," Garvey replied. "Can you please come out and check up on Clyde?"

"Send him back on the lifeboat."

"We'd rather not, if not necessary. I've a busy few hours left to get some bass, and could use their help. They get a percentage of the take."

David chimed in from beneath Martin, seated in a chair, "He did catch a bloody amount of bass last year."

"Fish tomorrow," Martin said.

"Weather's turning tomorrow. Forecast says some pretty big storms coming in. This is probably the last chance to catch them."

"True," David said, writing in a journal.

Martin greatly disliked people listening in on his conversations and disliked even more them making unwanted comments. "Be quiet," he said to Weston, who felt chastised and whispered "Aye, aye."

"Putting money over health is moronic," Martin said.

"Doctor, I agree. But, I'm helping out my brother with his divorce and my sister with her health problems. Come check him out. You can be in and out in a half hour, including the exam. Back home then to a warm shower and a good supper."

Martin was going to say "No," when he heard in the background Clyde groaning loudly.

"Ah, there he is again. Will you come?"

There was nothing Martin could do but go. He had a duty of care and he had to examine Clyde, and if Clyde, for some stupid reason, would not come to him, he was obligated to travel to Clyde. Martin had driven all over moors, to isolated farm houses, to ranger stations, had traipsed about in the woods, all on similar journeys.

"Yes," Martin said.

Things moved quickly after that. They didn't have a dry suit that fit Martin so bundled him up in a good life jacket and put a helmet on his head. "Sit in the middle, don't move, and we'll try to keep you as dry as possible."

Martin was not a brave man. But, here in Port Wenn he had been held hostage, fought off a man wielding a knife, rappelled down a sheer cliff face, climbed a long ladder to the roof of the school, faced a loaded shotgun, dealt with an animal trap and other assorted adventures. He had hated them all, but he had lived through them. He wore his usual frowning face as he approached the watercraft. He'd no doubt live through this, too.

A little crowd gathered at the Platt to watch Doc Martin zip out into the ocean. David Weston and Chris Connors were the two crewmen of the Arancia that night. One on each side they let Martin get settled in the middle and then launched the boat into the water. It was up to speed quickly, twenty-two knots, and it hopped and danced across the water with loud, jarring regularity, like a horse trotting over rough ground. Martin hugged his medical bag tightly to his chest, as they passed by the large retaining walls protecting the bay and entered into the Atlantic Ocean. Having to travel only 2.5 miles, they were thankfully there in four minutes. Martin still felt like his insides had been pureed.

They arrived at the boat and the Arancia deftly came up to the back entrance of the fishing boat, and was tied to the side. Like many of the craft moored in Port Wenn's bay, Matthias Garvey had a small boat, less than thirty feet long, and less than a fifteen foot beam. One gained entrance in the aft side, the boat consisting mostly of empty space to hold the lobster crates and barrels of fish, with a small windowed cabin in the forward section, where the steering and radio were enclosed. There were two smooth white chests against the hull on the port and starboard sides. The engine was found under the deck, by the cabin, and the access was opened to it, Garvey down in the narrow space, looking at the machine.

The RNLI crew members helped Martin stand as the waving ocean made the Arancia unsteady. He undid his helmet, leaving it on the floor of the watercraft. Clifton's hand gripping Martin's hand and pulling back and the use of his long legs pushing up got Martin on the deck. Weston handed his medical bag to him, and then adroitly hopped up onto the deck. Clyde was sitting on one of the chests hunched over, his hand holding his abdomen.

It took Martin a few seconds to get his bearing. He immediately realized he did not have good sea legs. He could feel each pitch of the boat, even though the water was not that riled and the motion not that extreme.

"Over there," Garvey said, pointing a wrench at his nephew.

Martin walked slowly and with his feet slightly wider apart to maintain his balance. Clyde watched him walk over.

"It's odd, Doctor," he said, either on his own using the fuller medical term Martin preferred or simply mimicking his uncle. "Pain's on the right now. Never had that before."

Martin squatted down and opened his medical bag and when a little incline to the left nearly toppled him, he went down on his knees instead, a more stable position. He took Clyde's vitals; nothing was abnormal except he was running a slight fever. Martin asked Clyde questions about the onset and progression of the pain, and then laid the boy down on the deck and did a physical exam.

It was, putting all the medical signs and symptoms together, fairly obvious to Martin.

"He's got appendicitis."

"Appendicitis? Don't just children get that?" Garvey asked, walking over to them, as Clyde got back up and sat again on the chest.

"No," Martin said, adding. "It's common with Hirshsprung's."

"So, he's got to go to hospital."

Martin packed up his medical bag, and stood up, "Yes, for an appendectomy."

Clifton had been standing nearby watching Martin examine his brother. "If he's going to hospital, I'm going with him."

"Ah, twins," Garvey mumbled, shaking his head. "Connected at the bloody hip."

Martin opened his phone, and called in for an ambulance to Port Wenn Platt.

David Weston said, "We'll take them ashore and then come back for you two."

Garvey had been sharing a few words with Clifton and Garvey said, "We'll be alright." He pointed to the engine area. "I'm no expert but I tightened a doohickey or two and that could get the boat going. Harry worked on it the last few days, so should be overall by seaworthy."

Weston nodded. "Give a call if you're still stranded. We'll be back on shore in ten minutes, taking a bit of time to not bounce our appendicitis boy about so much."

Clyde was gently lowered to the Arancia and Clifton followed, sitting next to his brother, who lay supine on the floor of the craft.

Martin looked a bit lost. He edged toward the Arancia as Weston untied it.

"Would you keep Garvey company, Doc? When the weather's a bit dodgy, we like two men on a boat. Listen, give us that life jacket back when you return."

Martin opened his mouth to dissent that decision, but Weston said, "Cheers!" and Chris started the engine and they turned back to shore. It was nearing 4:30 pm and the sky was graying, sunset one and a half hours away.

Garvey went down into the engine space, saying, "It's been sputtering a bit and dying out. Seems to be set to go, now, though. Harry didn't say he'd found anything else wrong." He got out and replaced the cover over the engine space with the deck board, and tightening it solid, stood up.

"Sure you don't want to do some fishing, get those bass? I found a large school of them a few years ago, southwest of here. They seem to like staying in that area each year. We could pick up a few, including one for your supper."

"I've bought supper already," Martin said.

"So, back to shore?" Garvey asked. "It's a real loss of revenue."

"Yes, back to shore. Why don't you wear a lifejacket?"

Garvey laughed. "I've spent my whole life on the sea, earning a living from it. If one day she wants me I suppose she'll find a way to get me."

A larger wave hit the hull and the boat rocked. Garvey stood as if glued to the deck, but Martin stumbled a few feet and caught himself on the top of the hull.

"Doctor, don't break a leg. Go sit on the chest. I'll steer us in."

Garvey went into the cabin and after a few seconds the engine spurted to life, and the boat went forward. Suddenly, though, Garvey pitched backwards out of the enclosed area, swaying like the Queen's arm in a wave, as the boat shot ahead on its own further out into the Atlantic ocean. Garvey then crumbled to the deck, and lay unmoving there. Martin grabbed his medical bag and dashed to the man, kneeling beside him. He rolled Garvey onto his back, and Garvey gurgled, "Can't move…left side…."

Martin's initial physical exam observations noted Garvey's left arm and leg completely unresponsive to motor nerve functioning. He had hemiplegia, total paralysis, of his left arm and leg. He could speak, but Garvey was drooling a little, another key sign. Cardiovascular accident. Martin thought Garvey might be fortuitous, with a smaller lacunar stroke only affecting his left motor nerves and his balance; he seemed oriented and alert otherwise. Still, even though the initial presentation was not that severe, many stroke victims worsened over the next days and developed fatal complications.

"Stroke," Martin said. "You've had a stroke."

"Damn."

Martin opened up his medical bag. Garvey was dressed in full fishing gear, clothes covered by waterproof yellow trousers and jacket, and thick, waterproofed boots. Lifting up Garvey's jacket, shirt and undershirt, he listened to his heart, and was relieved to hear it beating normally. He took out an aspirin he wanted Garvey to swallow.

"Doctor, the boat…." Garvey said, pointing weakly with his right hand.

Martin swung around. The boat was still moving forward, at a pretty good speed.

"Bugger!" Martin exclaimed.

He stood up and entered the cabin; the speedometer showed thirty-eight mph.

"How do you turn it off?" he called out, but before Garvey could answer, the engine began sputtering and with a last gasp, came to stop right as he saw a key in the ignition. He turned it to the side, nonetheless. The boat came to a full halt.

Martin's focus on his patient meant that the ship had travelled for four minutes at nearly forty miles per hour. They were now probably six miles out into the ocean, if not further. Too far for the RNLI to rescue them, as the Arancia was limited, as the fishing boats were, to a three mile distance from shore.

And did it seem to Martin the water was getting wavier? He didn't like being out in the ocean. It was too large, too deep, and too dangerous. He was out of his league here and afraid. He turned back to Garvey. There was little he could do for the man, on the boat. Martin went back to him and lifting him up by his shoulders, dragged him across the deck to sit up against the hull wall by one of the white chests. Martin tried to get the man to swallow the aspirin, but Garvey simply could not activate his swallowing reflex at all, and gagged, the aspirin winding up on the deck. It was apparent aside from the paralysis, the other deficit from the stroke was dysphagia, the inability to swallow.

Martin kept him sitting. That position meant he had less chance of choking on his saliva, which, if he could not swallow down his esophagus, put him at risk of getting the fluid in his trachea instead, especially lying down.

Garvey needed to receive tissue plasminogen activator within three hours to help dissolve the clot in his brain and significantly increase his chance of survival and rehabilitation. First, though, he had to be protected from the ocean, in a worst-case scenario, which was not that outlandish with Martin himself now captain of the boat.

Martin opened the chest and peered inside. There were two lifejackets and Martin took one out and with some finagling put it on Garvey's limp body and connected the fasteners. He saw waterproof gloves and put those on Garvey's hands. He saw a flare gun on a rope necklace and on a whim, put it around his neck, tightening the band so it was like a second tie around his neck. He also saw a rope, and because the boat then jumped with another wave, Martin tied the rope around his chest and the other end around Garvey's.

The typically loquacious Garvey said nothing, except, "Bloody Boy Scout."

He didn't know if any of his preparations were either practical or ridiculous, and they didn't really take away Martin's anxiety. He pulled out his phone to call the RNLI station. There was now no signal gained. Nothing.

"Damn!". Putting his phone away, Martin asked Garvey, "How do I work the radio?" He knew how to answer someone with the radio microphone, but not how to start it up.

Garvey told him slowly how it worked, and Martin went into the cabin, the rope tied between them long enough to reach from man to man. A slight drizzle had begun. Martin checked his watch—twenty minutes had passed from the Arancia leaving the boat.

Martin studied the equipment and believed he found the proper switches when the radio snapped on its own. "RNLI station Port Wenn, calling 104546E. Garvey, you there?"

Martin grabbed for the microphone and pressed the side button. "Ellingham."

"Doc. Just wondering how you're doing. Clyde and Clifton's in the station, safe and sound. You on your way back?"

"Garvey's had a stroke. The boat's traveled further out."

It was rare in Port Wenn that any serious crisis occurred, aside from tourists getting swept out to sea in an odd current, or boats, like Garvey's, breaking down. David Weston was trained well, though.

"How is he, Doc?" David asked.

"Not well. He needs immediate care. Call the Coast Guard."

David asked the Doc how far out to sea they were and based on Martin's time and speed destination, David confirmed Martin's own math that they were around six miles from shore.

"Doc, we can call the Coast Guard but it would be quicker to just return to shore yourself. I can walk you through operating the boat. It's pretty simple."

"No."

"Doc, come on, you're an intelligent guy. You ran some surgery department in London, right? You can steer a boat. Get it going and we'll get an Medical Air Helicopter to fly Garvey to Truro."

Martin frowned. It made sense that they could be back at Port Wenn in less than fifteen minutes, transferring Garvey to an airlift helicopter, while the Coast Guard would no doubt take much longer. He looked at the controls. There was a steering wheel, exactly like a car's. He looked back at Garvey, slumped down on his left side, his life literally in danger, and the rain, falling harder.

"Yes. What do I do?"

David gave Martin directions, which were indeed not difficult- how to turn the boat and then use the shore landmarks to direct his path. It seemed to be within Martin's capabilities, but then again, he had thought opening an animal trap was easy, too, and that had given him wrist pain for a week and Stewart the Ranger eight stitches in his hand.

But, David was staying on the radio with him, and that gave Martin confidence that nothing should go wrong.

Unfortunately, the leak in the fuel pump had gotten larger with that day's outing, and there was an accumulation of liquid and vaporized gas in the compartment. The wind shifted, and for just a moment Garvey picked up a whiff of air scented with a thick effluvia of gasoline. Garvey's damaged but quick thinking brain put together three vital clues to his boat's troubles; puttering, stalling, smell of fuel. Even though he wasn't a full mechanic, he knew those warning signs; everyone knew those warning signs. It likely meant a leaking fuel pump. Dear God. Why hadn't Harry found that?

Martin cast another glance at Garvey a second before Garvey figured out the crisis and raised his right hand weakly, calling out, "No!"

Holding the microphone in his left hand, saying, "I'm turning the boat on," Martin looked out the front windows, straight ahead into the open ocean. David heard the starter kick in and then what immediately followed could only have been called the noise of an explosion, and perhaps, lost in that roar, a yell from Martin Ellingham.


	32. Chapter 32

Chapter Thirty-Two

"Doc! Doc! Doc!", David screamed into the radio. Chris Connors came by his side. David flipped several switches and kept trying to contact Martin. There was nothing, no sound, no radio signal, nothing.

"Oh, god!" David said. He looked at Chris, his eyes wide in shock.

Clyde and Clifton also jumped in with questions, but David held his hand to hold off their panic, and turned back to the radio and sent out an emergency signal to the Coast Guard. Within seconds he had alerted them for an immediate Search and Rescue required for two men in fishing boat 104546E, in an apparent boat explosion six miles from shore off Port Wenn bay. Exact location unknown. One man had suffered a stroke before the explosion. No contact at all.

The Coast Guard confirmed the information and activated their fleet and contacted the RNAF Search and Rescue base, stationed in Culdrose. Within minutes two helicopters were in the air flying to the last known location of Garvey's boat.

There was nothing David could do now, but sit and wait.

The ambulance arrived for Clyde Garvey and he at first refused to go to hospital. But, the EMTs and David urged him that dying from appendicitis would not help his uncle. That reality plus the intensifying pain in his abdomen persuaded Clyde to get on the gurney and be loaded into the vehicle. Clifton was torn between staying and going but his twin connection to his brother compelled him to enter the ambulance sitting beside Clyde. Both Clyde and Clifton gave David their cell phone numbers, and David swore he'd keep them informed. But the time the ambulance departed, villagers by the Platt and in the local pub, The Crab and Lobster, knew the crisis at sea with Garvey and Doc Martin. Their predicament flew through the village like a supersonic jet.

With so many people now gathered around the station, David pulled the portable radio off the counter and directed everyone to go to the Crab. Someone noted Louisa should be told what had happened. No one volunteered at first and then Bert and Al Large took the responsibility.

"We'll go," Bert said. Louisa had always be a favorite of his. And it wasn't all bad news. The explosion could just have sent out shrapnel, which ruined the radio, but the Doc and Garvey were sitting fine.

They were slapped on the back and wished well and took off up Manor Road, putting their hands in their pockets as the rain patted against their coats. They got to the front door and stood a moment, staring at each other.

"You do the talking, Dad," Al said, rubbing his chin nervously. "I think it'll come better from you."

"I dunno, lad. I'm not very good at the serious stuff. If I seem to be making a mess of it, feel free to chime in." He paused, "How should I start?"

Al pushed out his lower lip in thought. "Maybe compliment the baby first?"

"Compliment the baby and then say the Doc is lost at sea? You're worse at this than I am."

"Mebbe," Al agreed.

"I'll just, as they say, wing it."

They nodded their plan, such as they had one, and knocked on the front door.

It had been a very long hour for Louisa. She wondered what was going on, as from Tricia's story, Martin had been able to accurately diagnose some bizarre medical condition, polymyalgia rheumatica, in fifteen seconds, from across a hotel room. What illness was keeping him down the road so long?

She had sat on the sofa in the living space, nursing James Henry for a long time, and when he had finished she had had no motivation to do anything but lie back and hold her baby against her chest. She did some half-hearted back taps to see if he needed to burp, but he seemed fine, and even that minute expansion of energy pushed her into a black fatigue.

She sat looking straight ahead, deliberately not turning her head to the left, where she would see the lovely desk, chair and filing cabinets. She deliberately also did not turn her head to the right, to see the culinary calendar taped to the fridge.

There on the sofa, alone in the home, the wind blowing stronger, the cold autumn soon turning to a colder winter, Louisa wasn't numb, wasn't angry, wasn't sad. She reviewed the last six weeks in her mind.

Martin had asked her if she was leaving. She had left several times before and it had felt so right for her to do so. He had been so impossible, so difficult to communicate with, and so resistant to showing and saying his love.

That had changed so drastically since The Castle, at least drastically for Martin Ellingham. She had always loved Martin Ellingham, but there, on the sofa, Louisa realized she did not just love him, but was undeniably deeply in love with him. With his body, his character, his stupid statements at the wrong times, and his attempts to change, his thinking of her, his caring to make her happy.

He had zealously denied her accusations. Louisa thought she knew the whole story but there seemed to be a broken link in the tale, something that created a chasm between the facts and did not allowed them to all come together. Her temper had put the damper on any rational discussion. Her insecurities, and jealousy, and her ever present fear of being abandoned by another person she loved, had caused the huge fight.

On top of that he had learned of her application being mailed in. She might never wholly be able to intuit why she filled it out, and why she had not discussed it with Martin.

She had seen the pain on his face, as he walked out the door.

Louisa did not think of leaving.

She thought how much she missed him, and wanted him home with her. Wherever that home would be.

A knock on the door woke her from her troubled ruminations. She stood holding James and went to the front door. Bert and Al stood there, their eyes looking at their feet.

"Can we come in, Louisa?" Bert asked.

"It's not a good time, Bert," she said. "If you're here for something medical, Martin is treating some sailor down at the Platt."

Al ducked his head a little and rubbed his sideburn. He nudged Bert who shook his head, refusing to speak.

Casting a nasty look at his father, Al said, "Ah, Louisa…there's something bad happened."

Louisa held her baby tight. "Something bad…what is it?"

She listened to Al and Bert share what they knew, as some Laurel and Hardy skit, one speaking a little and then the other picking up, continuing on, passing the baton awkwardly back and forth between them.

When they got to the end, the apparent explosion of the boat, and the lack of contact since, Louisa exclaimed "What? You think the boat exploded?"

The top half of her body became as heavy as the moon, her legs broomsticks, and she staggered back. Al and Bert were by her side, taking hold of James and leading her to a seat in the waiting room.

"Get her some water," Bert told Al, who held James. Al went into the kitchen, placed James Henry in his buggy and came back pushing the child and carrying a glass of water.

He offered the glass to Louisa, but she pushed it away. "No, no, get my jacket. Get my jacket!" She stood up hurrying to the door, but her quivering hands could not turn the knob.

"Oh, god!" she said, her hand covering her eyes.

"Now, now, Louisa, don't worry. We don't know what's going on," Bert said. He opened the door, and Louisa, grabbing the handle of the buggy, pushed it hard over the bump of the doorway and shot down the ramp and the hill, towards the pub, where Al had told her the village was gathering. She didn't look back at either of the men.

Bert followed her as Al decided he'd drive up and gather Aunt Ruth. Another job he dreaded.

Louisa entered the pub nearly at a run, and like the biblical Red Sea, people immediately parted down the middle to allow her passage. David had put the radio down on the long counter, and Louisa was given the seat at a table closest to it. The pub was silent.

"I just heard what happened," Louisa said, to anyone and everyone. 'Is Martin okay?"

"I don't know," David said, committed to be honest with her. "We seemed to have heard an explosion and now their radio is dead."

"Why would the boat explode? Do people survive that?" Louisa's voice was urgent.

"Lots of things can cause that. We don't know why it may have happened to Garvey's boat. We're not sure it did. We don't know what exactly happened. I've called the Coast Guard and they're on full Search and Rescue alert."

Louisa buried her face in her hands. "I don't believe this."

"Should we go out after them?" Eddie Rix asked.

David shook his head. "No, no, we can't have boats sailing beyond legal limits looking for them. They're six or so miles out, as far as we know."

There was silence for a second and then a somber voice asked. "How cold is the water?"

It was a question that froze everyone. The reality of what had happened to the boat, and the worse possible consequences, hit home. Garvey was well liked, Doc Martin was greatly disliked but well respected, but more importantly he was entwined with Louisa Glasson, and all held Louisa in homage. Most of all the two of them were Port Wenn villagers, and they were part of the village family, whether they welcomed it—as Garvey did—or hated it—as did the Doc.

Everyone stared at Louisa as someone answered. "Paper said forty-eight degrees."

No one said anything out loud, but the forty minds in the pub had the same exact thoughts: Not freezing cold, but very, very cold. Dangerously cold. Hypothermia cold. Deathly cold.

Louisa sat in the chair and realized she was trembling. Someone put a shawl over her shoulders. She picked up James, and held him close to her chest. The muteness of the radio was piercing pain to her ears.


	33. Chapter 33

Chapter Thirty-Three

The spark of the ignition had set off an explosion that threw Martin forward into the cabin, his chest hitting the steering wheel and his head hitting the frame between two pieces of glass. He fell to the deck, his hand going to his forehead and feeling a significant golf ball sized knot already under his scalp. Sharp pains concentrated by his left scapula, but he had full use of his limbs. Shaking his head free of the momentary vertigo, he saw thick, grey, foul smoke and swirling flames pouring out from the engine area, where the cover had been blown off. Garvey weakly was using his right hand gesturing at the white chest beside him.

"Hurry, before the full tank goes!" Garvey cried out.

Martin stood and dashed over to Garvey. He flipped open the chest and saw the fire extinguisher. Martin put the extra lifejacket over Garvey's face, to protect it, and then took it out and fumbled around trying to figure out how to activate the extinguisher, something he had never had to do before in his life.

The second, larger explosion of the full tank occurred right after Martin had pulled out the pin. There was heat, and airflow stronger than wind, as if the invisible hand of a giant has pushed hard against him. Standing tall, Martin's sense of awareness was frenetically distorted. There was a flipping sensation, with the world spinning in all directions at once. There was motion without substance, movement without solidity, and then he was immersed in bone-chilling water and sank down underneath the surface.

He popped up thanks to his lifejacket, but the intense raw shock of hitting the cold took his breath away and as he struggled for air he engulfed more water than oxygen. Panic dissolved his thoughts, and he thrashed in the water for over a minute unable to focus or orient himself. He couldn't breath and gasped desperately for air, in uncontrolled, increased spasms, inhaling and breathing in the salty, keenly cold sea, his heart speeding so fast it seemed to be humming instead of beating. With his life jacket keeping his head from fully being submersed, he was able to harshly cough out the inhaled water. After a couple of minutes he finally got his bearings and found himself facing open sea. It was terrifying. Turning about he saw the last of the boat sinking below the water, and there, not far away, Garvey, still jerking about in the water, as Martin had done.

They were still tied together. It had seemed childish almost to have done that earlier, but it had turned into a blessing.

Already Martin's hands were going numb. He swam awkwardly through the water the fifteen feet to reach Garvey.

Martin came around to Garvey's front. The man was near drowning, water filling his mouth. The lifejacket had apparently protected his face from burns or shrapnel, which was good. His eyes were wide open, but he could not register anything, his awareness lost to his primal, instinctual fear.

"Garvey!" Martin, grabbing hold of him with his worsening benumbed hands. "Garvey!"

Martin's voice seemed to reach deep into his patient's brain, and his eyes focused on Martin.

Suddenly a harsh blow struck Martin in the upper back of his head and it pushed him directly into Garvey's chest. Something still pressing on him Martin turned and he saw what, if he was a praying man, might have been a gift from God. It was part of a side of the hull, blown out no doubt from the ship, and large enough to have one man put upon it, up out of the sea. Martin's palm cupped the edge to keep it from sliding past them. He pressed his other hand against the back of his head and felt the gash. With nothing to do about it, and no signs of concussion, except a touch of nausea from the blow, Martin ignored it.

"Garvey. I'll lift you up onto this."

Garvey saw the hull remnant, and, somehow through all the choking and gagging rasped, "No. You go up. Louisa, baby."

Martin was touched by the answer. Louisa and James, home, safe, warm. How he wanted to be there, by their side. But, he saw Garvey, his older stroke victim, his patient, and he was Garvey's physician. A physician was what he had been born to be, and what he was, and nothing could overshadow that, even the love he had craved for his whole life.

"No. You're the patient."

"Doctor—"

"Shut up and get up."

Garvey had no strength to argue.

It was delicate, nearly impossible work in the open, cold sea, but Martin's size worked to their benefit, and Martin was able to use Garvey's limp body to hold the remnant in place, as he grabbed Garvey's upper thighs and lifted him out of the sea, up onto the board, urging Garvey to use his right hand to pull himself along while Martin pushed him further. If the remnant had come five minutes later neither of them would have had the dexterity to do what they did, but after some huffing and puffing, Garvey was on the board, out of the ocean, lying on his back. Martin put the rope in his hand, which he could not close any more, and used his arm to whip the rope over Garvey's body. When the rope hit the water on the other side of the board, Martin pulled it under the hull, and whipped it over Garvey again. There was enough rope to do that four or five times, tying Garvey to the remnant and also keeping Martin from drifting far away.

When that was done, they were, essentially, settled in the wide Atlantic ocean. Martin knew that getting Garvey out of the water made his slight chances of survival much better than staying in the water. His obligation to care for his patients was a preeminent priority in his life. Martin flashed to walking with Louisa's arm entwined in his, pushing their son James in his buggy. If worse came to worse, he hoped she'd understand.

Lying on his back, out of the water, Garvey was able to use his right arm to adjust his position a little and get the rope off his neck and over his lifejacket instead. He then collapsed on the hull, exhausted.

Martin noticed Garvey didn't seem to have any other injuries from the explosion, which was miraculous. The life jacket had protected his head from injury from the second blast but there were no wounds on his arms or legs. Martin assumed he had simply sunk into the water with the sinking of the boat.

"Sorry…boat exploding…Harry checked it out…" Garvey wheezed. "Sea might win this time…"

"No. They'll send out the Coast Guard."

The rain was falling, the wind blowing and the sea was resultantly active. Martin rode the waves up and down, and it was impossible, even wearing the lifejacket to keep the water off his face, and out of his mouth. It was sickeningly salty, and it was nauseating going up and down all the time. He used his arms to try to control his movements in the ocean.

"Don't move," Garvey directed. "You lose less heat staying still."

Martin lowered his arms and floated in silence, like at sleep, immovable.

Garvey continued, his voice getting more and more weak, each word forced out in a giant heaving of his chest, "Doctor, if I don't make it, and you do, track down my three kids, my sons and daughter, and tell them…"he paused to catch his breath.

"—You love them," Martin finished for him.

"No, they know I love them. I always made that clear. But, I want them to know what their lives meant to me. Tell them, I'm proud of them. Proud of whom they are, who they've become, proud of how they've lived their lives. Promise me…." he had to pause again to get some breaths in. "You'll tell them."

Each word Garvey had said had struck Martin's soul. "Yes. I'll tell them."

Garvey spent a minute puffing air in and out before he could continue. "And, if I make it, but not you…what should I tell Louisa?"

Not, "I love you," Martin had just learned. He had said that, and shown it as best he could. Even in their argument, before he left, Martin had let Louisa know his love for her. That never would change. That never could change. He had listened to Garvey and tried to make his answer have the same meaning.

"Tell her…." He pictured himself at the Castle, his heart opening up for her. And he pictured her by the Cliff, so unbelievably beautiful, her smile, her hair. Even thought it seemed to be shrinking to protect itself from the cold, his heart managed to open up once more. "I was always so thankful for _her_, for everything she gave to me, for how she made me…" He paused for a long while to find the right word, knowing his brain stumbled like a slow child doing University level calculus in this area of life. He found what he thought was the best, last word, "….better."

"I'll tell her."

They were quiet then, and the raindrops against the sea and the waves lapping were the only noises. Martin was glad that Garvey had his waterproof outerwear on, which would prevent further exposure from the waves sliding up onto the top of the deck and the rain. Martin had treated the sailors of Port Wenn for years, and knew their hardiness. He hoped Garvey had that trait.

There was an immensity of loneliness being stranded so far from shore, wondering if anything above in the supposed heavens had looked down and noticed two men lost at sea. And if they had been noticed, if an angel had made the alert, it was natural to hope mercy was to be granted.

Martin was cold, and each and every second he got colder. He knew all about hypothermia, how it came on, early symptoms and how it progressed. He knew the fatal physiological changes. He would watch the condition spread over him, like a cancer patient watched his body grow cachexic. He would cool slower due to his stocky build and his being an adult. His clothes might make a layer of air that would help insulate, too.

"Don't focus on the cold," Garvey said, almost telepathically, his voice down to a whisper. Martin had to lean his body in to catch the words. "Old sailor trick…Think of the warmest place you know….put yourself there….only think of that…"

It was a trick Martin believed he could do. He had good meditative skills, always had, especially related to practical matters. He wasn't sure why, but he could picture himself in a situation and fill in all the details, his imagination walking through every logical, practical step, and it got ingrained in his mental processes. In medical school he had meditated on how to perform the most difficult surgeries, going over every single step, every miniscule action over and over, and had then excelled at them in the operating theatres. He had used that skill to overcome his blood phobia, as well.

This would be different, with no future goal to focus on, aside from basic survival. But, given the desperate nature of the situation Martin thought he could adjust his meditation abilities to focus on generating warmth and comfort to apply now, to help save his life now. His mind created various places of warmth, of heat, the Sahara Desert, Death Valley-where a medical colleague traveling through California had once reported it was 115F-a hot shower, the sun. He ran through many possibilities, until he came upon the perfect one. He pictured that scene, the location, every detail, and every nuance. He lost himself in it reveling in the internal warmth it generated. It was so much better than where he was now. He had found the place in his mind to stay to help escape the penetrating, frigid sea and that was where he remained.


	34. Chapter 34

Chapter Thirty-Four

Aunt Ruth sat next to Louisa in the pub, as time slowed unbearably. Every second was a minute, every minute an hour; she had aged ten years in the few minutes she was there.

"I'm sorry, I'm not very helpful in situations like this, Louisa," Aunt Ruth said.

"It's nice you're here," Louisa eked out, barely able to form words in her distress.

Ruth ruminated a few minutes and then added. "I've spent more time with Martin in the last two months than I have in the last thirty years. I've surprised myself by enjoying it."

Louisa looked at her.

"He's uniquely Martin, but he does grow on one, doesn't he?"

Louisa nodded. "Yes, he grows on one," adding, "Thanks."

David was in contact with the captain of the Coast Guard cutters on their way to the general area where it was believed Martin and Garvey's boat had gone down. Two helicopters deployed from the Search and Rescue RNAS base in Culdose were also scouring the area.

"Any sign?" David asked, after giving his identification.

"Negative."

David had directed them to where he believed the boat may have been. There was roughly a two or even perhaps three mile, or so, radius area from the exact location where the Arancia had met Garvey's boat. It was just the top half of the circle, as It was clear that the ship had traveled further out to sea, and not closer to shore. That did narrow the search down a bit, but the waves were rising, the wind gusting and no one knew where the men, if in the sea, would drift. And finding men alone, if not in a life raft, at night, made the search, extremely difficult. It would be a result of pure luck or chance.

The pub was unusually quiet and someone asked out loud a unspoken enquiry everyone had been pondering, "How long can they survive in the ocean, at 48F?"

"Arthur, shut up," a woman's voice chastised.

David said, "No, it's a good question. I'm sure Louisa and Dr. Ellingham, hell, everyone are wondering that."

Louisa, holding a sleeping James, said nothing, but her frantic face spoke loudly.

"Concrete facts, to help understand a stress inducing situation, can be helpful," Ruth declared.

She remembered when she thought she had a fatally advancing lupus condition and had worried that Martin would lose both aunts in six months. Martin had proven her diagnostically incorrect and the joy of life had flooded her system to momentarily overcome the Ellingham barriers to expressing affection. Now, she found it terribly ironic that _she_ might suffer the unbearable loses of two loved ones in less than six months.

"In a healthy person, they can survive for 1-4 hours in 48F," David said. "The Doc is pretty healthy, for his age."

"He only eats three meals a day," someone mused. "I've never seen him snack."

"He's never bought one bag of crisps, or any candies," said Martha, the shopkeeper in Port Wenn. "Just vegetables and whole grain bread, and the like."

"He walks around a bit, too."

"Louisa, he's not got high blood pressure, or anything, does he?"

Louisa, hardly able to translate the syllables and vowels into intelligible words, finally answered, "No. Nothing like that."

"So," someone concluded, "he can last up to four hours. That's plenty of time."

"Maybe not so for Garvey," another anonymous voice said.

The pub went quiet again.

Louisa phased out the conversation. There were only a few things she was focused on—the radio, the clock, James Henry, and her thoughts of Martin. Everything else faded into a dull background. If she lost him now…it was a harrowing tribulation to have that image form, like acid leaking out of her brain scalding the inside of her skull. In their last interaction, Martin worried she'd leave him. Oh, god, she knew that nothing outside his living through this was important anymore. Not Edith, not surgery, not her job, not living in London. She did not, she realized, cherish her job, or her village. She cherished Martin Ellingham.

She needed him, and his bizarre comments, and his touch, and his suits, and his lack of getting jokes, she needed all of him, back in her life right now, back by her side, forever.

Someone bleakly called out, "One hour."

One hour since the last communication from Martin on the boat.

She came close to vomiting.

"Port Wenn RNLI. Any news?" David radioed the Coast Guard.

"Negative," the Coast Guard said.

A loud smack of water hitting his lungs coughed Martin out of his meditation. It was getting harder to focus on it. The waves were getting higher, three to five feet and the up and down motion made Martin grossly seasick; he was dizzy and greatly nauseous. It was still raining, and the sun had set. It was dark in the sea, and the clouds covered the night sky, so it was equally dark above him. Martin had never remembered in his life feeling so despairingly alone and miserable. Garvey was silent and he did not know if the man was dead or alive.

Freezing water smacked against his face every few seconds, and it was hard if nearly impossible to not swallow or breathe in some, no matter which way he faced. Even turning to the remnant hull he still had water splash off the hull directly into his face.

For each breath he inhaled, he hacked out some amount of sea.

He began shivering after thirty or so minutes in the sea, as far as he could tell. His watch, not waterproof, had stopped as soon as his entrance into the ocean. Martin knew shivering was initiated at a body temperature of 95F, the medical diagnosis of hypothermia, and would stop around 89F. At that lower body temperature, he'd become disoriented, and would inch closer to a fatal arrhythmia.

The shivering shook his whole body, and he knew it worked against him, sending his remaining heat dissipating into the water around him. He had long ago lost all coordination of movement in his limbs, but, still, nonetheless, knowing medicine so well, he hoped he kept shivering until his rescue. He didn't want to lose his mental capabilities—it would be losing himself, his entire identity. For all of his life his intelligence, his astute perspicacity had been Martin Ellingham. His being consisted solely of his intellect, his cleverness as a surgeon, his knowledge base, his skills and expertise.

But, then he realized he did not imagine himself staying warm in an operating theatre, or in teaching residents how to sew up a badly lacerated liver, or writing a peer reviewed article for a medical journal.

He meditated on something else, entirely.

He had more to lose than his brain.

He wondered where the Search and Rescue was. Were they that hard to find? Another wave landed directly in his face. It didn't help to keep his mouth shut; water went up his nose just as easily. He felt his back against the edge of the hull. It was the only substantial thing in his life right now.

He vomited up some seawater and told his neck to keep his face high, up out the water. Then he took his consciousness away from the sea, the rain, the waves, the cold so intense it seemed like it would freeze and crack his bones. He went away from that, even if it was only for seconds at time, and went into his mind, to the warmth, to his escape.

His body lost more heat, and even though medically he knew what to expect, Martin could not prevent it from occurring.

During the next hour, the hypothermia slowly deconstructed his wits. Martin tried to take off his life jacket, wanting to get out of the sea and thinking the jacket prohibited him from doing that, but his hands were spasmed into fists and the fasteners could not be undone. There was so much water…cutting, miserable water…where was he? He was in the car with Louisa, driving in the pouring rain, she was ending their relationship…that day, the concert, he hadn't heard a note of music sitting there beside her, so beautiful…he tried to raise his arm to pat his lapel where the little flower was, but he couldn't move his arm…holding the steering wheel…she was at her door, in the rain, leaving him…all the water falling down…

"Don't go. I love you," he said, but the rain fell louder than his words, and they were washed away down the street.

Very soon after that, Martin stopped shivering.


	35. Chapter 35

Chapter Thirty-Five

The pub was crowded with villagers, the most ever squashed into the space. And, yet, it was if it was a graveyard tomb. No one said anything, but a hushed whisper rose now and then. For all the people crowded together there were an equal number of prayers directed at the radio, that at any moment it would call and say the Doc and Garvey were found.

Louisa's prayer led the way.

Garvey was still alive. Being out of the water directly had helped him out, plus his waterproof outerwear and gloves. He was shivering, but alert. He still couldn't swallow and he was still probably drooling but with the water that hit his face fairly constantly it was hard to tell. He gagged every few minutes, when a larger wave struck the hull, unable to swallow any water in his mouth. There was a benefit to that, with none being able to enter his stomach.

He had been watching Martin and saw him slip further and further into unconsciousness, until finally, his head had become too heavy and fallen forward. He was now at much more risk of drowning, no longer able to cough or spit or vomit up the water, which got down into his body, his stomach or his lungs. Garvey's heart sank and he lost hope. He didn't want to watch Martin die so he turned his head to the other side, and there, in the distance, he saw a very bright, white, light, shining out from somewhere.

A Coast Guard ship. It was far from them, and god knows headed in what direction. Garvey waved and called out, knowing what a futile gesture both actions were.

It was then he turned back to Martin. Martin with the flare gun

around his neck...the waterproof, already loaded flare gun….

There was something about being Boy Scout prepared!

Garvey reached over with his right hand, and grabbed at the flare gun cord Martin had adjusted around his neck. Garvey had only the slightest capacity to move his fingers, and it took all his coordination with the waves moving him up and down and the cord being wet and the angle odd to grab the gun. It seemed to take forever but then surprisingly, it was lying in his hand. He could not hold it like a normal gun, so he put the canister down on the hull, aimed it straight up in the air, and pushed his whole hand down to have enough force to press his thumb against the trigger. The gun went off upwards with a thundering blast.

Maritime training directed those at sea to fire one flare for quick identification of the general location area and then a second one minutes later to specify the target. With the use of only one very cold hand, Garvey could not reload the gun, even though the flares were attached directly in back of the firing canister. One flare was all they had.

The sky brightened like a fireworks display and then the color faded, and it was dark again. Garvey watched the far light, and he grew disheartened, as it seemed for too long it didn't seem to change. Then all at once, it turned, and the light was coming towards them. And then he saw several other lights as well.

He looked at Martin with a sense of relief, when suddenly the worst possible thing happened. The rope around Martin's chest, having rubbed hard against the rough edge of the remnant, had frayed by the wave-induced friction. As the rescue boats neared, Garvey watched in horror as the rope fully pulled apart and Martin's body continually rose and sank as it slowly floated away.


	36. Chapter 36

Chapter Thirty-Six

"Royal Coast Guard calling Port Wenn RNLI," burst out of the radio two hours, eight minutes after lost communication.

David Weston dove for the microphone. "Weston here."

"Reporting that flare was seen. We are approaching area."

David turned to those in the bar, a smile gracing his face, giving a thumb's up signal. "Right! Please keep us informed."

A cheer went up in the pub, glasses were lifted and drinks were heartily ingested. The hubbub of conversation began again in excitement and relief.

"Roger that."

David announced the obvious, "Someone had to fire the flare gun. One or both of them is still alive."

A few minutes later they had the radio again. "Coast Guard to Port Wenn."

"Here," David said.

"Coastguard Rescue Officer descended for man found on small piece of boat hull."

"Is there another man present? There were two men on the boat."

"Two men not confirmed."

Suddenly the joy was sucked out of the room, and once again, a nervous lull settled on the occupants. No one wanted to, but it was hard to not stare at Louisa Glasson. Her baby was back in its buggy, and she sat with her arms wrapped tightly across her chest. Her eyes were closed, and two little tears spilled out from under them.

The beam of the Coast Guard cutter nearly blinded Garvey as it covered him with its dazzling gleam, brightening up the night as if God was beginning creation again by separating transcendental darkness from light.

Within a minute a Rescue Officer was by his side, in full dry suit and helmet, and tied to the cutter. The officer began freeing Garvey from the ropes and arranging his transfer to the rescue basket.

Garvey pointed to his right. "There's two of us. One just floated away."

The Rescue Officer radioed the information while continuing to get Garvey to safety. A recognizable sound flew over them, comforting like a mother singing a lullaby. It was a helicopter, with its own searchlight lighting the sea up like a West End theatre stage. Garvey was taken into the ship almost against his will. He did not wish to be safe when Martin was still adrift. He could not wholly welcome the expert hands that greeted his arrival.

"Coast Guard to Port Wenn RNLI."

"Weston here."

"Good news. We have recovered Matthias Garvey. He was transferred to an RNAF helicopter for emergency flight to Truro Hospital."

"Was he okay?"

"Left sided paralysis, slightly hypothermic."

Left sided paralysis. That was the stroke. Murmurs stirred in the room.

"He was found on the remnant of the hull of his boat, loosely tied on it. Reportedly put there by Dr. Ellingham. No doubt saved his life, getting him out of the water."

"Where's Dr. Ellingham?"

"He has not yet been found. He was tied to Garvey but the rope broke right before our arrival. We have two cutters and a remaining RNAF Helicopter searching for him. Wait—"

The radio went silent for so what felt like so long that dinosaurs could have once more evolved during the time.

The radio flared back on. "Port Wenn, Ellingham's body has been found and recovered."


	37. Chapter 37

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Louisa had sat mute and nearly unresponsive for those two hours. She was aware of Ruth by her side, and Ruth's awkward hand now and then touching her arm or leg. She knew other friends were around her, and sensed they commiserated with her, but she was not that soothed by their presence, and her terrible fears were not assuaged from the watchful waiting of her community.

Upon hearing the radio Louisa jumped up in angst and terror and yelled, "His _body_? Is he _in_ his body? _Is he in there!_?" On some level it sounded like gibberish, but in her dismay she could not be more articulate; it was the best Louisa could do.

The meaning was obvious to everyone.

David Weston translated the question for the Coast Guard radio translator, "Coast Guard, please confirm Ellingham's status."

"Roger. Hold on."

Louisa kept standing. Her heart sank and she covered her face with her hand. 'Oh, my god," she said. "Oh, my god."

No one told her it would be okay.

They heard the crackle of the radio. "Report on Ellingham updated. He's alive. Drowning complication concerns. Critically hypothermic. On RNAF emergency flight to Truro Hospital."

The room had gone blurry, and her face was wet, as if Louisa herself was under water. She ignored her tears as she called out, "Someone, please, take me to Truro!"

One hundred hands were raised.

The searchlight found Martin in the sea by luck, and probably in the last minutes of his life. The well-trained rescue officers rapidly got his body horizontal in the rescue basket and lifted up into the helicopter, and they were lifted out of the sea closely behind Martin.

Even in the cramped environments of the helicopter, which radioed to the Coast Guard cutter organizing the rescue Martin's recovery, the medical crew went to work to save Martin's life. The life jacket was removed and he was fully undressed, his airway, breathing and circulatory systems were checked. Initial observations initiated CPR, but Martin responded within the first minute. He coughed and spit out some fluid and began breathing on his own, although he did not return to consciousness. His rectal temperature was recorded at 32 C, and immediate hypothermic techniques were instituted. EKG leads were placed on his chest as cardiac arrhythmias were commonly recorded when cold-immersion patients were rewarmed. Only Martin's markedly slowed pulse was noted as abnormal in the helicopter.

A Res-Q-Air mask was attached to his mouth, to enable him to breathe in warm humid air, and heat packs were put around his neck, and on his chest, abdomen, and groin, leaving his frozen limbs uncovered.

Heating up icy limbs in a hypothermic patient sends the frigid blood to the patient's heart, which can have fatal repercussions, in the syndrome known as "rewarming shock".

He was in very serious shape, and by no means out of danger, but the helicopter crew was hopeful from his responses so far.

The helicopter landed on the roof of Truro Hospital, and Martin was taken with urgency to the Emergency Department.


	38. Chapter 38

Chapter Thirty-Eight

PC Joe Penhale drove Louisa and Aunt Ruth to Truro, utilizing his sirens and his speed with impunity. Still, in the rain, on the rural roads on the moor, it was slow going, but once they hit the major road to Truro they made good time.

Other Port Wenn villagers followed close behind. Louisa called Chris Parsons from the police van, because Chris was Martin's best friend, and would like to know the crisis at hand. He also had some influence in hospital in Truro and might be a help in some other administrative way.

Chris was terribly shocked, of course, hearing Martin was being flown to Hospital, and arranged to meet her at Hospital. Parsons then called the ED docs and asked to be specifically contacted with all information regarding the arrival of Martin Ellingham.

It took nearly another interminable hour for Louisa to arrive at Hospital. Joe dropped her and Aunt Ruth off at the ED entrance doors and then went to find parking. It took a second to get James Henry out of his car seat and his buggy out, but once everything was set to go, Louisa dashed off pushing her child. Aunt Ruth quickly trailed behind.

Chris, dressed in casual clothes, met her immediately upon entrance to the ED. They weren't particularly close but were amenable acquaintances due to their shared relationships with Martin.

"Louisa, he's alive. They're working on him. Very hypothermic and some head injuries, some wood and metal in his back. What _happened_?" Chris asked, and then before Louisa could answer he rambled on further. "Every other week he's saving someone's life, diagnosing some rare condition, operating on a child in an ambulance, or on a woman in his consulting room. It's crazy. Dr. Sims, you know, just did simple GP care for nearly thirty years, no drama about it." He caught himself and gained control, "Sorry, sorry. I just…" He looked down the hall, into the ED formal working spaces.

"He was on a boat, in the ocean, the captain had a stroke, and then the boat exploded," Aunt Ruth summarized.

Chris's eyebrows furled in disbelief, "What?"

"I have to see him," Louisa said. "I have to see him. Right now. I have to see him."

Chris nodded and leaving James with Aunt Ruth, led Louisa down the hospital corridor. Behind them, other villagers started trickling into the waiting room.

He took her to Martin's room in the Resuscitation area, where a physician and nurses surrounded him.

"Dr. Phillip Cartney, excellent ED physician," Chris assured Louisa.

Dr. Cartney noticed Chris and giving another couple of orders to his resident and nurses, left Martin's side to join them.

"Dr. Cartney, this is Louisa, Martin's uh—"

"—fiancée," Louisa said.

Chris smiled. "Lovely. His fiancée. How's Martin doing?"

Cartney looked back at Martin lying unconscious on the table, covered in EKG leads, IV catheters, warming blankets, and the Res-Q-Air mask.

"He's doing better than expected, but he's not, figuratively, out of the water yet. He's very cold, body temp decreased to 89F. We'll be raising his temperature a degree an hour, so that's going to take some time. He's got a head wound to stitch up and we've got to ensure there's no fracture of his skull. There was a boat explosion, right? He's got some wood and metal fragments in his back, and those need removal. If his heart holds out, and there's not been neurologic damage from his near drowning, which we don't know yet, he could recover fully. But, that's too early to say."

Louisa nodded and then slid away from the men, walking closer to Martin, slowly, anxiously, giving herself time to see him so seriously wounded. She had never seen Martin get a cold; for all the sick people he'd treated he'd always been immune. He'd seem invincible physically, at times.

She came upon him, and was horrified. He was ghostlike, so white, and pale, almost see through, except for the enormous black and blue mass rising from his forehead. This was the exact opposite of his hopes and dreams-here he was, back in a hospital, not saving lives, but trying instead to be saved himself.

She touched his face, so cold. His hair, wet, fuzzy, soft.

"Please, please live, Martin," she said. She kissed his temple, and then was gently asked to leave by the nurse, so they could continue working on him.

Louisa went back to Chris and Cartney, and Cartney nodded and returned to Martin as well.

"Garvey's doing okay. He was a lot less hypothermic. Martin saved his life, putting him on that bit of blown out hull. But, how much he'll recover from his stroke we don't know."

Chris was leading Louisa back to the waiting room when suddenly Louisa ran into Edith Montgomery, coming out of another ED room.

'Parsons," she acknowledged.

Chris rejoined "Edith," with some asperity in his voice. Louisa noticed that immediately and it made her like Chris Parsons that much more.

"Emergency caesarean," she said titling her head towards the room she just left. "Child inconveniently wrapped the cord around his neck."

It was then she graced Louisa with her notice. "Louisa. Had your baby on a pub couch, I heard. What's bringing you here tonight?"

Chris answered, "Martin was in a boating accident, and lost at sea a couple of hours. Hypothermic. Head injuries." Chris pointed down the hall to Martin's trauma room.

"Another circus event in Port Wenn," Edith said. And then her tone changed and asked quite seriously, "How's he doing?"

"We hope he's going to recover fully. Possible neurologic damage from his near drowning. But, Martin is probably too stubborn to not recover fully."

Edith still kept looking at the room. "Indeed."

Louisa stared at Edith, and then spoke out the side of her mouth to Chris, "I'll join you in a minute, Chris."

He took the hint and, with a quick, "Right", went back to the waiting room.

"May I speak with you a minute?" Louisa asked.

Edith pulled her attention back to Louisa, and gave her a full look from Louisa's comfortable footwear up her clothes to her face. Then, incongruently, Edith asked, "Was your son underweight?"

That took Louisa off guard. "No, no, he was fine, thank you."

"Really? Two weeks early, as well? When he was SGA during your exam? Hmm. Perhaps you didn't recall all the sex you had with Ellingham."

'That's, that's none of your business. Now." Louisa leaned in lowering her voice, "I'll like to speak in private."

"As you wish." Edith led Louisa down this and that hallway, Louisa almost immediately becoming lost in the mazes. Edith finally led her into a small office. Louisa stepped in and Edith closed the door. She sat down at her desk, took pen in hand and began writing.

As if Louisa was simply some insect on the wall to either crush or let live by her allowance, Edith asked, "Yes?"

Louisa had hardly had any time to run over this discussion in her head. From finding out about it earlier that day, to the argument with Martin and then the abject thoughtless fear of the two hour wait and now being at hospital, Louisa was not prepared for this conversation. Nonetheless, she felt compelled to have it, having met Edith by chance.

"I found out about you and Martin at the Rougemont Hotel," she stammered out. "In Exeter. Two months, or so, ago. Days before James Henry's birth."

"James Henry? Henry was Martin's grand-father, you know."

"Yes, I know," Louisa said, pushing some loose strands of hair off her face. "James was the name of mine."

"Gave him a frog to dissect when he was five. And you know, Martin did dissect it. Badly, he says, hitting all the nerves and blood vessels."

Louisa finally understood how Alice felt in the world beyond the looking glass. Even though her mind was not working at its best, she knew one thing; Edith was deliberately playing with her. It was too much for Louisa. All the emotions of the day, the shock, the anger, the regret, the fear, the panic, the love, and caring, the uncertainty- all the various hues and flavors of human emotions, which made people human-they bundled themselves up inside her, compressing into an atom and the pressure had to be released.

Louisa knew this woman in front of her, Edith Montgomery, had narrowed life down to two feelings, arrogance and disdain. Louisa knew she was just a meaningless, backwards, little country school teacher to Edith. The pressure valve exploded like Garvey's boat and she lost her temper.

"Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!" she yelled.

That got Edith's attention and she put down her pen and looked up at Louisa. She smiled. "I knew something was lurking down deep inside you."

"I found out about you and Martin. Caring for me and my pregnancy while trying to steal him from me."

"Steal him from you? Hadn't you cut him entirely out of your pregnancy? Out of your life?"

"No. Yes. Not by choice."

"Oh. So, whose choice was it?"

Those last three months of her pregnancy were hard to explain. She and Martin had been at each other's throats all the time, and she thought she knew what underlay all that tension; their frustrated love and their inability to admit or communicate it.

They had moved beyond that frustration.

"I'm not sure. It doesn't matter." She didn't pause, as she couldn't bear to hear Edith's verbal one-upmanship. "I know you shared a room with Martin at the hotel."

"Well, yes and no," Edith said.

"Yes and no what?"

"I did register Martin in my room."

"You registered Martin?"

"Yes."

"He didn't know about it beforehand?"

"No."

"So, he spent the night with you."

"No. Martin has trouble with intimacy. Another phobia, one might say."

"What?"

"He chased after some hotel clerk with the compulsion to diagnose him, and then checked out and left the hotel as I was beginning my keynote speech. I confronted him about it the next day, willing to help him overcome his obvious intimacy issue, but he declined."

"So, you and Martin, didn't…"

'We didn't. I'll be going back to London next year, and I imagine with my help he'll be able to conquer that problem."

Louisa realized what an "ass" she had been. She should not have doubted Martin. He didn't lie to her. He didn't love Edith. He loved her. Louisa suddenly felt ten feet tall and Edith was merely a speck of dirt on the floor.

She was no threat to Louisa Glasson. Louisa was right; she had won. Ever and forever, she had won.

She walked to the door and grabbed the handle, feeling too imperious to bother herself with such an insignificant woman as Edith. Yet, she stopped and remarked, "Just to let you know, Martin has no problems with intimacy. At any time. In any position." She gave direct eye-to-eye contact with Edith. "With me."

Edith may have answered, but it was lost in Louisa closing the door behind her. Louisa couldn't believe she had dared to say what she did, and she was proud of herself. With two different people giving her directions, she finally found her way back to the waiting room. She was met with her friends, her family, and her villagers. All of them together, however, could not equal her desire to be with Martin.


	39. Chapter 39

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Garvey and Martin were eventually moved into their own private rooms in Truro Hospital after they had been stabilized and treated in the ED.

Louisa began to breathe normally, to unwind the tightness from all her joints, all her muscles. It was like she had been massaged with warm oil, loosening all the knots.

It did not last long. Unfortunately, very quickly after being placed in his private room, things went wrong. The EKG machine starting acting up, leaving its nice, slow, normal line of beating for odd leaps and bounds which Louisa didn't understand, but knew could not be good.

It wasn't.

There was immediately a lot of bustle in the room over Martin. Trying to get an explanation was difficult at first as the doctors and nurses had their attention wholly upon him. She got quick glimpses of information. They had trouble getting his electric blanket settings correct, had heated him too quickly, and, just when Louisa had thought all the crises were over, Martin's heart had begun beating irregularly, the beginning sign of that potentially fatal rewarming shock. Physicians and nurses pushed Louisa out of the room and began working on him, using all their tools and medications to try to get his heart beating normally again. Louisa almost screamed to high heaven, emotionally exhausted, hardly having the energy to stand, disbelieving that hospital care to revive him had put him closer to death.

"Idiots," Ruth said, by her side. "Doing what they specifically knew they should definitely _not_ do."

Louisa had lived her life in the middle grey for a long time. For years she had wanted Martin, but couldn't stand so much about him. She could not live with or without him. She had been caught in the grey, the endless desire, but could not commit 100% or break-up 100%. Now, ready for 100% commitment, right there in the hallway her life was suddenly defined as black and white. Life or death; living or dying. First in the ocean and now in Hospital.

She couldn't bear the black. It had to be white, white with Martin, white with life.

She paced back and forth, up and down the hallway, James sleeping in his buggy against the hallway wall. The pacing depleted her energy just enough to keep her from having a complete and utter breakdown.

It took a half hour for the physicians to feel comfortable leaving Martin's room, assuring Louisa his heart was reacting to the medication, and his rewarming was slow enough to not cause another similar episode. How she had not ripped all the hair out of her head during that interminable thirty minutes, she didn't know. Hearing that Martin was safe and would stay safe, Ruth was driven home by Al, and Chris returned to his wife and child saying their goodnights, and telling her they'd return the next day.

Louisa collapsed in a chair by Martin's bed, and stayed there unmoving for hours, eating what people brought her to eat and drinking the cups of fluid they put in her hand.

With James sleeping in his buggy, she grabbed Martin's hand, still bone cold. The back of his head had a bandage on it, covering the ten stitches. The large knot in the middle of his forehead seemed to be a unicorn horn in its birthing phase. The pieces of wood and metal had been removed from his back, too.

She fell asleep one hand holding Martin's and one on the handle of her child's buggy, waking to nurse and change the baby's nappies. Some helpful Port Wenn villager, she wasn't even sure who, had run to the local supermarket and brought back two packs of nappies and some other supplies for James and Louisa. She no longer cared for the gossip of her fellow villagers, and school co-workers, and wasn't swayed by it, anymore, but she'd be eternally grateful for their caring and their assistance in need.

She was desperate for this whole affair to be over, to be home alone with Martin, and instead of complaining about their insulation, be content with it.

When Chris came back in the morning, that allowed Louisa to leave James with him, go to the bathroom and freshen up. She then visited Matthias Garvey, who was awake and facing his future of intense rehabilitation. Clifton was in the room with his uncle when Louisa showed up.

"Hello, Matt," she said, one of the few in the village that did not use his last name. Garvey lay in bed, half of him lifeless, half full of activity, his right arm waving to her as she entered.

"Louisa. This is my nephew Clifton."

They exchanged greetings. Clifton then left to return to a post-operative Clyde.

"Louisa, have a sit. I'll tell you what happened." He held a cloth to his mouth and tilted his head to it. "Drooling problem. Stroke damage. Sorry." He wiped some saliva from the side of his mouth. "Can't swallow. They hope I'll get that back."

Louisa sat. "I'm sorry, Garvey. The loss of your boat, your stroke. I'm glad you're alive."

"You know, Martin sacrificed himself to save my life, although I told him not to."

She hadn't known that. No one knew any of the details and she was eager to learn. Matt told her what had happened; it didn't take long. Louisa took in every word, every vision of the event.

"I know most people think he's a tosser, but he's the most dedicated physician I've ever seen in my life."

That was one of the things Louisa had fallen in love with very early on. She nodded.

"Louisa, I've something else to tell you. Just for your ears." Matt told the tale of him and Martin sharing what they'd tell family members if one of them had not survived. Matthias repeated what Martin had asked Garvey to relay to Louisa. "He said, 'I was always so thankful for _her_," (he made sure he got the emphasis right), "for everything she gave to me, for how she made me…"' he paused, as he remembered Martin had done, "…better."

"I think he loves you very much, Louisa," Garvey added, dabbing away some saliva.

She nodded, closing her eyes, her hands clutched together over her heart.

Martin woke up later that afternoon, in a soft bed, snug and cozy. He felt heat encircling his body. He had never appreciated the physical sensation of warmth as he did so much upon his awakening. And, he was dry. Dry and warm. Simply heaven.

Plus, he was alive, apparently. He didn't remember much of the water after the initiation of his rampant, and useless shivering. He remembered the water washing against his face, over and over and over again. He remembered the brutal, Siberian cold, and he recalled his meditation, the way he had imagined he would ideally be warm, which had brought him the most comfortable reprieve from the boreal elements of nature, until nature had shown its overall supremacy over man.

At least, over him. The hypothermia had won, but apparently other men, trained to rescue, had overcome nature.

Chris was there when he awoke. He could see from Martin's movements and his lucid awareness that no neurological damage had occurred from his near drowning.

He told Martin Louisa was at the cafeteria having some lunch and would soon be back. He filled in Martin on the rescue, and on Garvey. Martin was then told about his own injuries and recovery. Martin touched the back of his head, feeling the bandage, then the bump on his forehead. Moving his left arm, he felt the stiffness in his back, where the bits of shrapnel had embedded.

Chris spoke his exasperation, "You know this whole situation is beyond belief. You're on a boat, your captain has a stroke and then the boat explodes, and you're lost at sea. Why can't you just see colds and flus and stubbed toes and peas implanted up nostrils, like every other GP in Britain?"

"I see colds and flus."

"Yes, and trimethylaminuria, Forest Rangers with invisible squirrels, anaphylactic adder bites, acute porphyrin, head injuries healed by DIY drill bits, and severed splenic arteries held together with your thumb and forefinger for a half hour in an ambulance ride."

"I've only compressed one severed splenic artery."

Chris Parson's smiled at Martin's literal accuracy. He had met Martin in medical school and had disliked him for several months, until he found himself getting used to the strange man, and his odd, yet brilliant ways. They had wound up close friends and had maintained that attachment for twenty-five years.

He was going to answer but saw Martin's attention leave him completely upon Louisa's entrance into the room. She looked haggard and tired, dark circles under her eyes, her hair in its perennial ponytail but strands sneaking out like a little spider web above her head. She carried James up by her shoulder, although she was pushing the buggy as well.

"Martin!" she said, coming into the room, seeing he was awake.

To Martin, Louisa walked in with the sun tethered behind her, giving her face a vibrant glow.

"Ah, well, I've got some work to do…" Chris said, to no one paying attention, as he slid quietly out the door.

"Oh, my god!" She put James in his buggy and came to his bed. She grabbed his hand, at normal body temperature, sat on the edge of the bed, and leaned over kissing him for a long time on the lips.

"Louisa," he said, and she was lost in that those grey-blue eyes of his, so soft, so yearning. His other hand came up and ran down her cheek. "I love you. I love you so much. I didn't sleep—"

"—I know," she interrupted him. "I know you didn't. I know. And, I'm sorry about the application. I shouldn't have filled it out. I never meant for us to be apart." Both of her hands wrapped around his. "Please, don't say anything. I was wrong. And then I was so terrified. Just…be here, with me...Martin…"

He could do that. He could do that and anything else for her. For the rest of his life.


	40. Chapter 40

Chapter Forty

Many visitors came that day to Martin's hospital room. He hadn't minded Aunt Ruth, or Chris Parsons, at all, or Roger and Maureen, or even Joy and Peter Cronk. But the stream had been endless, even a couple of prying reporters, Louisa too nice to curtail all the good wishes. She collected the cards into a pile, and ran out of space for the flowers. She stood turning about searching for another empty area to place the new vase.

"Try the rubbish bin," Martin suggested.

She gave Martin one of those looks, but there was a playful air about it. Ah, yes, everything was back to normal. There was something absolutely fine about that.

Martin walked slowly to Garvey's room later that day and they chatted quietly for a little bit, Garvey wiping his mouth every now and then. Garvey also had some cards and flowers strewn about the room. He was learning to swallow again and would soon begin physical therapy. No one knew how much recovery he might obtain. The MRI had proven Martin's belief he'd had a lacunar stroke. At least he was left with his speech and alertness.

"I'm getting hooked up with the Cornwall Stroke Service. I suppose they'll coordinate through you, my GP."

"Yes."

"I want to thank you, Martin," he said, switching for the first time from Doctor Ellingham to Martin's first name. "You saved my life."

"No, I didn't."

Garvey nodded. "Listen, I know you're a rude old bugger, grumpy and asocial, but do me a favor. Drop by now and then while I'm in rehab, and say hello." He held out his right hand.

Martin easily shook it. "Yes. I'll visit."

Martin came home from hospital the next day, wearing the suit Louisa had brought from home. Louisa drove his Lexus through the pouring rain; it really was a nasty autumn. Martin's head ached, even without having a skull fracture. The swollen egg on his forehead stretched his skin and was painful to touch. His back sometimes sent lightning jolts through his flank, he was incredibly stiff and sore, and he felt depleted, empty, as if he had run a million miles.

"Nice being home," she said as they passed through the front door.

"Yes."

The rest of the afternoon went quickly with Louisa chasing away visitors and then volunteering to make supper. Martin spent the hours on the living room couch, having little energy to do anything else but watch some news and perused the paper, ignoring the little article about a Port Wenn GP and patient lost at sea. He napped a little and when he awoke, he held James Henry, rubbing his baby's head, and then began reading a medical journal to him.

Louisa held out a little children's book. "Try this instead."

Martin took the book and looked at the title, as Louisa returned to the kitchen. "Fire engines cannot speak," he said.

"So, reading to him about cervical cancer occurrence in obese women is better?" Louisa answered, over her shoulder, as she began preparing supper.

"He doesn't know what a cervix is."

"Martin! Really! Just read the fire engine story."

Martin opened the book while Louisa added, "He likes the siren to go OOH-EE! OOH-EE! OOH-EE! Nice and booming."

Somehow Martin made it through that section, his siren about as cacophonous as a coma patient.

"Louder," she called out from the kitchen sink.

Martin glanced her way and upped the vocals half a decibel. He paused in the middle to report to Louisa, "The fire engine is jealous of his cousin the racing car? The mechanical genetics of this story are capricious and imprecise."

Louisa finished opening up the can of tomato soup and smiled. "Wait until you meet his mother, the golf buggy."

"Rubbish," he said, putting the book down. He picked up another medical journal and scanned the titles, a bit more carefully than before. As Louisa was setting the table, she heard Martin begin, "Hypothyroidism is one of the commonest disorders in Western populations. In the United Kingdom, the annual incidence of primary hypothyroidism in women is 3.5 per 1000 and in men 0.6 per 1000..."

Louisa sighed. At least it wasn't cervical cancer. At least he was reading to their child. At least he was home. She no longer needed Isobel's angel on her shoulder to appreciate that.

Martin watched Louisa put the fish into the oven. His voice trailed off and Louisa turned at the unexpected quiet, and their eyes locked.

"You're beautiful, Louisa," he said. "Absolutely beautiful."

"Oh," she said, pulling down her top and checking her hair, rather abashed by his sudden compliment. "Thank you, Martin."

"You're welcome. And, I love you."

He then continued on, James Henry fluttering arms and toothless smile showing Martin his utter enthrallment. "Furthermore, a small but significant proportion of patients continue to feel unwell despite taking Levothyroxine…."

Yes, she no longer needed Isobel.


	41. Chapter 41

Chapter Forty-One

During dinner, Martin patted down his jacket pockets and Louisa's skin crawled with a second déjà vu.

When he found the item he was searching for, Martin pulled it out. It was her engagement ring.

"Um, third time's the charm?" Martin asked, holding it out for Louisa.

Louisa put down her utensils and reached for the ring. She put it on her finger. "Yes. Third times the charm."

"Good," Martin said, starting to eat again.

She looked at it. "I thought it was lost at sea."

"No. It was in my pocket. I lost one shoe, though."

"I suppose they could dredge for it."

Martin stared at her. "The cost alone—"

Louisa grinned.

Martin nodded slowly, as the light bulb went off in his head. "Ah, that was a joke."

Louisa continued grinning. Then, as if out of the blue she wanted to shoot herself in the foot, she asked, "How's supper?"

Martin answered delicately, analyzing her for any signal he was on the right or wrong path. "It's…good…fine…perhaps a little more garlic on the fish…"

"Oh, more garlic. That's easy to fix."

"And…" he kept staring at her, "We might choose a less salty brand of tomato soup…salt raises the blood pressure over time…but, it's good. Fine. Tasty."

Louisa said, honestly, "I thought the soup was too salty, too." She then smiled, "You know, salt can cause water retention, as well."

"Yes. But, not in you."

Their eyes bore into each other. They had run through the gauntlet and had wound up on the other side, untouched, without any injuries, any pain. What had been was now no longer; it had been fully transformed into something new, fresh, and wonderful.

Later that night, in bed, Martin was back in the sea. The icy water was viciously agonizing, and this time, he had no life jacket on. He was thrashing for any help, a rope, a raft, a buoy, but there was no purchase. The water filled his mouth, his nose, his ears, and it had tentacles, attached to his legs, and was pulling him under, deep into the ocean. He clawed desperately at the water to get out, but his fingers grasped nothing, and he was going down, into the fearsome dark, his lungs bursting for air, and he saw in the last rays of light filtering through the watery murk, next to him, two others caught in the glacial water, two others being pulled down, already drowned, already dead, Louisa and his baby James…

Louisa was startled awake up by a blow on her back from Martin. She swung around in bed and sat up, seeing his body moving as if it was subject to electrical charges. He was frantic, his arms and legs jerking about, demolishing their bed. She had never seen him lift his pinky during the night, his sleep usually something akin to a sedated vampire. Now he was doomed and helpless in a terrible nightmare.

Of a moment, he shot upright, his eyes flashing open, yelling "NO!" He turned to see Louisa, wild in his distress, perspiration covering his face. He grabbed her shoulders hard with both hands, shook her as if to ensure she was real, and then flew out of the bed, tripping on the tousled sheet and landing hard on the floor.

"Martin!" she cried.

He got up and stumbled to James Henry's crib and stopped, looking down at his child, his son. He reached out and touched James, and the baby was fine, unharmed, still sleeping. Martin collapsed, sitting on the far edge of the bed, as his breathing slowed down, his head lowered against his chest. He looked defeated.

"Oh, god," he said.

Louisa crossed the bed and gently guided him back to their pillows. "Come. Lay down," she said, and he did. She got the sheets and blankets back into form and slid under them, curling herself up against Martin, kissing his cheek, using tissues to wipe away the sweat, and then resting her head on his chest. She could hear his heart still pounding, the lub-dubs echoing in her ears. He put his hand on her back, rubbing it back and forth.

"Were you in the sea?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Drowning?"

"Yes."

"And we were drowning, too, me and James?"

"Yes."

"Oh, Martin, we're safe. It was a dream. We're all safe."

They lay like that for a while and then Martin spoke. "When we were in the water, Garvey told me to not focus on the cold, but to think of some place warm, to imagine myself there, to help myself survive. This is where I went, being right here, in bed like this, with you beside me, and James in his crib. This was the warmth that helped me live. This is where I wanted to be."

He closed his eyes and kissed the top of her head. She received the kiss with equally closed eyes.

"Martin," she said, "I rang Stu MacKenzie today, when I came home for your suit. I told him I was definitely resigning. I also told him to have them rip up my Superintendent Assistant application. I want you to go to London and be a surgeon. I want you to run the Vascular Department at Imperial. I want to live with you there. I'll get whatever job I can, but I want to be there in London with you."

"Louisa," he said, hugging her tightly against him. "I resigned from Imperial today to stay here in Port Wenn with you."

It was true. He had rung Robert Dashwood that morning, from his hospital bed, before Louisa had come back from home with the Lexus and a new suit. He had told Robert that he couldn't take the position at Imperial, and he was going to stay in Port Wenn and be a GP.

He didn't tell Robert why, but it was clear to Martin-he was doing that because that would make Louisa happiest, and that was his first goal in life, his only goal in life.

He didn't care where he was or what he did. He just needed to be with Louisa, with her lying on his chest, his arms wrapped around her. He knew she was happiest in her village, so that was where his heart wanted him to live. What had been so difficult to understand for so long, was now so simple to see.

Her eyes widened as she looked up at him questioningly. Drawn together, their lips fastened together for a very long time. She then rested her head back down on his chest. His heart beat slowly, and steady. It was hypnotizing, and put her into a wholly pleasurable trance. She could stay curled against him forever.

"What are we going to do?" she asked, her hand under his pajama top, caressing his chest.

He answered after a long while. "We'll talk tomorrow."

"Yes, tomorrow."

They had decisions to make, and situations to unravel. But, for right now, the comfort of their love, and their unity together, was enough.

THE END


End file.
